Everyone's Encore
by Alien Explosion
Summary: [Post S1, Ensemble] Four months later. Despite what everyone thinks, Nathan isn’t dead. And neither is the Company.
1. New Lives

_A few notes:_

_- Hiro and Claude will play major roles, but neither will come in for a few chapters. And I'm not really going to go into a lot of detail on what Hiro was up to in 1670's Japan because...I'm not that creative._

_- The Sanders Family will be fairly minor (ie. no separate plot thread)._

_- Molly's Badder Boogeyman won't be in this story. Because I really can't come up with a 'worse than Sylar' type person. See? Not that creative._

**Everyone's Encore**

**1. New Lives**

Nathan Petrelli flew his brother into the stratosphere.

His mind had been a storm of torrential confusion and angst for over a week. He was experienced enough to know that no leader could keep a one-track mind about things, like Peter did. That was the way his brother always been; faithful in the things you couldn't always count on. True, faith was important, as his mother had told him. Without it, no great accomplishment ever got past being just an idea in the first place. But there were always the uncontrollable variables.

In the case of the explosion, the prime variable was the inevitability. Linderman and his mother told him repeatedly that it couldn't be stopped. Peter was convinced that it could be. With one shot to the head, he had told Claire, New York could be saved.

As Nathan Petrelli soared past the clouds with his brother in his arms, he knew that all three were right. The explosion was inevitable. New York would be saved.

But only one death was going to do, not .07 percent. And he was_ not_ going to allow Claire to be responsible for her own uncle's death.

They were miles above the city now. Fire seeped into his arms like acid, as he went higher and higher. Nathan felt like he could give out at any moment, but he continued to speed higher and higher into the night sky. He felt something burning pry him away from Peter. But he refused to let go of his brother; he _needed_ him, more than he had ever realized before. Nathan struggled to keep a hold on Peter, trying to find him in all the light.

But there was a flash, and Nathan Petrelli saw no more.

* * *

FOUR MONTHS LATER

The only thing that went through Matt Parkman's head as he descended his fourth flight of stairs was a stray thought he had picked out of his ex-partner's head once, when he used to serve in the LAPD.

_Christ, would a stairmaster kill you, Parkman?_

It actually might, as he clutched his heaving chest. He couldn't believe this. The public elevators to the Baltimore Police Department were frigging working when they arrived an hour ago. It was a cruel joke, dammit.

"Parkman, ease up," said Audrey, looking back at him with concern. "We can stop-"

"—No," Matt insisted, soldiering on down another two steps. "I'm okay, don't worry about me. Just keep-"

"Stop being an ass," she told him, halting in his path.

"I told you, I'm fine-"

"You have a child due in a few months, and the last thing Janice needs is you aggravating your wounds just because my speedy stair descent made you feel insecure and less macho. We're going to rest."

Matt leaned against the banister, irritated but trying his hardest to conceal his utter relief at a break. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily. And to think, he had been excited to be working again. He couldn't even get himself down the stairs of a damn building. It pained him to imagine how he would've felt going the other way.

"Are you alright?" she asked. "I can go upstairs and ask for a water."

"I'm great, thanks," Matt panted. "Aren't we going to be late?"

Audrey rolled her eyes. "What, did you think I was going to schedule an urgent appointment for your first out-of-town trip after getting shot? I need you healthy for this assignment, Parkman, don't push yourself so much."

Matt was actually growing a little sick of all the charity he'd been receiving these past few months. It wasn't false modesty; he truly did enjoy the whole serve and protect thing, but even more than that, he loathed being pitied. But all the attention did beat being considered a liar in the thoughts of everyone around him. No one certainly thought he was a liar now.

This was because _he_ was Officer Matt Parkman, the good citizen who took four bullets and saved the lives of seven other people from a crazed pickpocket terrorizing Kirby Plaza the night of November 8th, 2006.

…At least that was the cover story Bennet had given him.

After a while Audrey cleared her throat. "Is the public hero going to need a nap during his break?" she asked dryly.

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," Matt answered gamely, still huffing, "I could really use a pillow for that though. In satin, preferably."

Audrey snorted. "Don't flatter yourself, Parkman, everyone else seems to do that enough already. Come on." He grinned, and followed her down the last flight.

Well, at least her attitude towards him hadn't changed. As intimidated as he'd been when he first met her, it was a relief to see Audrey as one of his first hospital visitors, days after the explosion. She'd even brought him a nice 'Get Well Soon' card—any nicer form of well-wishing would've been…well, awkward, coming from her. Matt appreciated the sincerity so much that she, along with Janice, were the only two people to whom he told the truth about Kirby Plaza.

"So who's the guy we're questioning?" Matt asked, once they were outside. It was déjà vu all over again, as if they were hunting down Sylar once more. But to his surprise, Audrey shot him that one, piercing look of hers.

It didn't take him long to interpret, even with the telepathy. "Uh, guy _you're_ questioning?" he corrected himself. She gave a sort of approving nod and started off towards the rental car.

So much for post-near-apocalyptic camaraderie.

"Look Parkman, you're a good guy," Audrey started, "but I need you for your skills right now, not for the team player value. That doesn't mean you're playing lie detector," she added sensitively. "But until I get you up to speed, I'm-"

"—Officer Parkman!" yelled a voice from behind. "Matt Parkman!"

"God, how far does your fan club reach?" she said irritably.

"I thought only LA and New York," Matt laughed, as he turned around. "Don't worry, this won't-"

Matt stopped mid-sentence, frozen in place.

"Officer Parkman, my god, I can't believe you're here…" the young man started.

Although he had lost all sense of himself, Matt had drawn in enough breath to utter the man's name.

"Peter Petrelli…?"

* * *

"Jodi! Hey, Jodi!"

Claire Bennet, already more or less used to her new name, looked up from her homework to find her friends Rodrigo and Tyler walking towards her house. She shielded her eyes, watching the sun setting behind them over Dayton, Ohio. Smiling, she put her Biology book down on the porch table and ran over.

"Are you two skipping out on driver's ed again?" she asked, with mock disapproval. "You're a bad influence on him, Rodrigo."

"Technically we're not skipping," replied Rodrigo, the cuter of the two. "During break we told Parker that we'd run to the 7-Eleven and get him some Cheetos. We just decided to bypass the returning part."

"The guy's totally gullible," said Tyler, a thin boy who sipped on a Slurpee. "But we're going to the men's varsity soccer game right now. Wanna come with?"

"Ugh, sorry Ty, I can't. I put off the Bio paper all week and now it's due tomorrow-"

"—Pssh, Bio is so easy," said Rodrigo nonchalantly. "You could finish that tomorrow morning."

"Maybe _you_ could," said Claire, "Mister Overachiever-Who-Won't-Even-Go-To-Driver's-Ed."

"Eh, I have like ten other pursuits, and only one me to go around. Besides, I make it a point to make life an adventure. You should too, Miss Jodi Lou Petersen."

Claire gave Rodrigo that little sideways smirk she loved to use for his dumb comments. "My middle name is not Lou."

He shrugged. "It rang better than Jodi Sandra Petersen. Come on, go with us!"

"Not if you're going to screw up my middle name, Rodrigo," She replied teasingly. "Honestly guys, I really want to, but I have to finish this. If you want you could take Mark. He's a big soccer fan."

Rodrigo and Tyler exchanged looks. "We'd love to take your bro, Jodi, but the last time we invited him over to watch a Buckeyes basketball game, he was sulking the entire time. He's not the funnest guy to be around."

Claire secretly felt sorry for Lyle, who was now and forever a hardcore Texas Longhorns fan. Who could blame a boy for not being able to chant 'Texas Fight' while watching his favorite pastime? "He's just adjusting to the move," she explained. "It's taking him a little while. Can't you guys just take him along?"

Tyler sighed. "Fine. But only for _you_, Jodi. And you have to come with us for milkshakes tomorrow during driver's ed, okay?"

Laughing, Claire nodded, and pointed the boys toward her backyard, where Lyle was. She hoped they wouldn't tell Lyle that she'd asked them to take him along; it annoyed him enough that she was the 'Petersen' child who adjusted best to the move from 'Yuma, Arizona.' But in truth, it was all a front. Really, she was sorely homesick for Odessa. Rodrigo and Tyler were great, as were most of her new friends, but she really missed Zach. No one she'd met in Ohio was quite as unique or insightful as Zach had been.

And even though she'd only really gotten to know them for barely a week, she really missed the Petrellis. After the explosion, no one was able to find Peter or Nathan. It started a huge, nationwide FBI search, complete with seemingly endless media coverage for the missing congressman-elect and his brother.

Claire often wondered about them. She was sorry she couldn't apologize to Peter, for doubting his faith in her father Nathan. She was also sorry she didn't get to know Nathan very well. With the election, it had been hectic when she visited their household—and he and her grandmother didn't exactly make the bonding time very bearable—but it would've been nice, while she had the chance.

She checked her watch—it was a quarter after five. It was time to help her mother get dinner ready. Her father would be coming home in an hour from work—actual work, not the clandestine kind of cover job he'd had only a few months ago.

She was certain about this, because Dad didn't even bother to make up enthusiastic work stories to share at the dinner table anymore.

* * *

Molly was getting worse.

And as Mohinder Suresh sat back in their new Chicago apartment, a frightened desperation came over him. He knew that he'd been foolish. He'd been dangerously foolish.

Who was he kidding? Even if he supplied her with his antibodies every week, she reverted to her old state within five days, every single time. And now, as he inserted the needle into his own skin again, he looked over worriedly at Molly, feverish and shivering in her bed.

It's only been three days.

He knew that her pneumonia was aggravating her condition, but he was fully aware that even if she recovered, she couldn't go on like that. Truthfully, neither could he. He needed a permanent solution.

Mohinder withdrew more blood, pulled out the needle, and, now light-headed, he sat back, staring fixedly at the cooler full of blood packets—his own blood, sitting by the desk. On top of the desk were two plane tickets peeking out of an express mail envelope.

Molly would be leaving for safety, while he would be leaving for a cure.

* * *

The infamous locks were no longer hiding his eyes. Those were shorn in favor of spiky, unkempt hair. And it wasn't even a stylish sort of unkempt, unless one was trying to win a homeless bum fashion show. He also had a respectable goatee growing, thankfully it was comparatively cleaner than his hair, as well as the long, ragged jacket he had on. To top off the look, his eyes were noticeably bloodshot.

But without a doubt in either Matt's nor Audrey's mind, it was Peter Petrelli.

"You're alive," Matt gasped in disbelief.

"Yeah, guess I am," said Peter. "Hi, Agent Hansen." He said both sentences very naturally. As if he'd been asked, 'Hey, you're back from Europe already?' 'Oh, you know, I couldn't quite stomach the Hungarian cuisine, I spent all my money shopping in Italy, you know how it goes.'

Audrey wasn't about to respond coherently, so Matt did so, as best as he could. "Everyone's said you were dead for the last four months. You survived the explosion?"

"I regenerated. Woke up on the beach a week and a half later. I've been uh, _traveling_ since, you could say."

"And your brother?"

Peter shook his head sadly, looking away in that anguished way of his. "I don't know. Right before I blew up…I shoved him off, trying to save him, you know? But the flash was so bright, I couldn't see where he'd gone…"

"Peter, I'm sorry.," said Matt consolingly, "…But, well, I mean, you're alive now…and I just can't believe that you…well, I mean you…"

"You look like hell," Audrey blurted out suddenly. She received stares from both men.

Peter managed a laugh. "Guess I sorta need cleaning up, eh?"

"You look like a damn addict, Petrelli." Even with dead men, Audrey never changed her charming demeanor.

He smiled slightly. "Unfortunately, you're not that far off the mark, Agent Hansen." He looked over at Matt. "Look, I know you guys are busy, but I'm looking for Nathan." Noticing the exchange of skeptical, grim glances, Peter replied accordingly. "Dead or alive, I have to find him. I have to know what happened. I need your help."

Matt was skeptical, certain he knew how Peter's journey would eventually end. Still, he always supported his better instincts when it came to helping friends. "Sure, what is it?" he asked.

"You seen Claire and her dad?"


	2. Unwelcome Company

_Edited to tone down my ridiculous adverb abuse..._

**2. Unwelcome Company**

Mr. Bennet looked through the blinds evasively, watching as a sedan drove towards their house, and passed by.

He should've seen this coming. He was well aware that Peter could easily regenerate after exploding. But he never pressed the possibility whenever Claire brought it up, for fear of getting her hopes up too much. He didn't know for sure how going nuclear would affect a mimic like Peter, or the damage it _could_ cause, even with regenerative abilities.

Then he got the answer three days ago, from Peter himself. The young man, alive and well, had found Matt Parkman, to whom Bennet had given their phone number for emergency reasons. Peter had explained his situation, and Bennet eventually invited him over for a visit—provided that he not mention his plans to Claire just yet. At this point, two months after leading the dismantlement of the Company, Bennet wasn't sure how deep he wanted to be entrenched in this sort of madness again. Especially now that he had gotten things back to relative normalcy. On the home front, anyway.

"Noah?" Sandra entered the bedroom, walking over to the window where her husband sat. "Honey, dinner should be ready in twenty minutes. …Any sign of him?"

"No, not just yet. Where's Claire?"

"Sitting on the porch, watching the street, just like you." He let out a slight chuckle. "Are you worried about something?"

He looked at his wife. "Are you?"

"Of course not. You said he's a nice man, and he saved Claire, after all. Now, that being said, you don't exactly look convinced by your own words."

"Peter said he's on a little mission," he answered, somewhat grim. "It's impossible to accomplish, but he wants my help.

"I'm sure you can help him in some way," she said optimistically, as if dealing with someone like Peter Petrelli was as simple as lending your ladder to a neighbor. "You have a lot of free time, when you're not at the computer factory. And you don't always have to take care of me, dear; Dr. Fields said my brain scan looked much better than five weeks ago."

Bennet gave no reply to this, but feeling guilty, he gave his wife a quiet hug. "What's Lyle up to?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Oh, I think he's watching TV, I don't know what-"

"PETER!" came Claire's jubilant voice outside. Her parents saw her leap off the porch and run towards her uncle, just as he ducked out of the cab. Peter almost fell over as Claire ran into him with a loving hug.

"He's here!" Sandra said anxiously, leaving the room, "Goodness, I have to check on the vegetables, and make sure the table's set correctly…"

Taking one last look out the window (Claire was giggling at Peter's haircut) Bennet exited the room as well, anything but excited for their guest.

* * *

Lucy Aquino found her mark. 

Other Asians were masters of the stereotypical things. Medicine, engineering, music, martial arts, tricking out one's Honda Civic. Lucy long ago realized she was shit at all that, but she was well versed in the art of Pickpocketry, the science of a misspent youth.

But it always took her a while to find a good one. This guy was perfect though, and not to mention, a real looker. For the past five minutes, he'd been standing in the subway car staring out the window distractedly, wearing a nice jacket over a blue sweater and white oxford shirt. Although the sweater's bulkiness limited the number of moments his inside coat pocket would be wide open, it was no real obstacle for her.

Not for Lucy and her lightning-hands.

She noticed that he also had a nice Razr sticking out of his back pocket. She could get more money for the Blackberry she just swiped off the business woman currently leaving the car, but she decided she'd steal the Razr for the win. Hey, at least it was a chance to make a pass at the hottie, even if he didn't notice.

The subway train started off again, and, using her peripherals, Lucy could see her mark check the time on his watch. It was a shame this car didn't go through any tunnels. With that much time in the dark, she could totally jack the watch too and hawk it for some nice cash downtown. But she couldn't pick and choose.

They were approaching another stop, and Lucy pretended to be making her way towards the door, swiftly snagging the guy's wallet on the way. Once she was behind him she got the Razr too, and silently she waited for the car to stop.

She smiled happily on her way out. It was always far too easy for her. At this rate, she could have enough for a nicer apartment by next week; she definitely deserved it. Lucy looked inside the wallet. Maybe she'd look into that vacancy by the park; she'd always wanted to live over there because it was closer to the restaurant. Or in the one downtown, by her friend—

"Excuse me!" came a voice, and simultaneously a hand dropped on her shoulder and a gun pressed into her back. Terrified, she turned her head, finding herself facing the hottie from the subway.

He gave her a kind grin. "I have to say, that was _amazing _work you did back there! Especially with that business woman and her Blackberry, I was very impressed with your _speed_. But, I think today you may have picked the wrong pocket."

"Look sir," Lucy stuttered, trying to find a way out. "I'm sorry, I-I'll give you your stuff back, I swear, just please, just don't…don't shoot me, sir, I'm-"

"—There's no need to worry miss, you're not in any trouble yet." The man reassured her. "I'm sure we can come to some sort of deal, however. And please, don't make me feel old with this 'sir' business. Call me Mohinder. Mohinder Suresh."

* * *

Peter sat on the porch with Claire and Lyle after dinner, watching the sun set behind the trees. 

"Come on, do something cool," Lyle was urging Peter.

"Lyle! Stop bothering him!" said Claire.

"Come on, no one's outside, and it's getting dark. He can do a small thing, can't you Peter?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't think your dad would approve of me busting your cover, _Mark_."

Sulking, Lyle sat back. He really hated that name. "You can't do something really quickly?"

"Mark!" called their mother. "Come in and help clean up the table!"

"Get Jodi to do it instead!" he yelled back. He turned to Peter again. "Come on, you can't like, levitate the dog or something?"

"Cut it out, _Mark_," Claire insisted again.

"You said he could do a bunch of things, why can't he-"

"—MARK! Get your butt in here, right now!!"

Lyle grumbled to himself and went inside to face the Wrath of Mom. Claire shook her head apologetically at a laughing Peter.

"Sorry, he's been more of a brat than usual lately," she told him.

"Ah, it's no big deal," he said, scratching Mr. Muggles behind the ears. "…Miss _Jodi Petersen._"

Claire snorted. "Daughter of Mike and Alice."

"What about your dog?"

"To the rest of the world, he's Maddy; inside the house we have to call him Mr. Muggles or else my mom says we might traumatize him."

Peter smiled amusedly, continuing to pet Mr. Muggles poofy mane.

"I'm glad you're alive, Peter," said Claire finally.

"Glad to be," he returned, looking her in the eye earnestly. "And I'm glad I got to see you again. I was wondering when I would."

"You look like crap, you know."

Peter laughed again, happy to add Claire's teenage opinion to his list of critiques. "What, the haircut and goatee don't do anything?"

"You really need to start watching TV for your fashion sense," she told him. "Seriously, why is it that every other time I see you, you look malnourished? What have you been doing?"

"Traveling, mostly," he said simply, stretching out his frame on the chair swing. "Trying to figure out a few things."

"Why didn't you go home? You've been all over the news for months."

He shrugged, trying not to make his motives obvious. "I have my reasons. One of them is that I don't want to see my mom just yet, or Heidi and the kids."

"Because you've been looking for my dad?" she asked quietly.

Peter looked at her. He wasn't supposed to mention Nathan, but honestly, the subject was unavoidable. At last, he answered, "Yeah. It's been four months but…I haven't found anything. Not a trace."

"Did he blow up with you?"

He sighed. "I don't know. See, he flew me up there, but at the last second I tried to shove him away, right before I went off. And it was so bright, I couldn't tell what happened, exactly."

"…Do you really think he's alive?" she asked carefully.

"I don't know," he said, uncertainty compelling him once more. "But I have to try looking for him, at the very least. He's my brother. I have a responsibility. To him and to you and the rest of our family."

"What if you don't find him?"

Peter didn't have an answer for that. He didn't want to, not yet. Claire accepted his silence, and stayed quiet herself for a while, rocking the porch swing they were sitting on back and forth with her toes. Finally, she asked, "You'll let me know the second you find _some_thing, right? You won't sugar-coat anything?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't do that to you, Claire. You deserve the truth."

"Thanks, Peter."

"No problem." They continued to watch the incoming evening for a while, Claire pointing out various quirks about her neighbors as their respective outdoor lights came to life along the darkening street. For a few minutes, it was nice. Sipping iced tea, enjoying the evening, talking about nothing. It was the kind of bonding time they _should've_ had in New York, when they were busy arguing about the next course of action or debating Nathan's trustworthiness

Suddenly, an all too familiar burning shot through Peter's chest. He looked away, trying to suppress it once more.

_Just stay down, dammit, not here_…he hoped Claire wouldn't ask why he had abruptly stopped talking…_keep breathing,_ _don't freak out here, relax…_Shit, he shouldn't have left his luggage inside…he could get the drugs if he excused himself-

"Claire." Mr. Bennet was at the door now. "Could you come inside, please? I think Mom wants you to help find one of Mr. Muggles' brushes."

Peter realized that he wanted to talk to him. Claire knew this too, and, smiling back at him before leaving, she went inside obediently.

"Ohio's not a bad place," Peter started, deciding to try to get Bennet to ramble on with small talk while he tried to get this under control. "Nice suburbs, probably greener than Texas, I would think-"

He was interrupted by the force of his head being shoved downward and an abrupt prick to the back of the neck. Bennet held Peter's head down as he administered the tranquilizer, and soon Peter felt a wave of calm pass over him. The burning subsided, and he settled down.

"You might've mentioned over the phone that you were having trouble with your radioactivity," Bennet told him irritably, putting the syringe away in his jacket and sitting down in a patio chair. "Common courtesy, you know. Don't want you to trail nuclear fallout all over the carpet."

"You made it such a short conversation, I didn't get the chance…" Peter gasped, leaning over and rubbing his face in his hands. "It's why I've been gone all this time…I've been trying to figure it out-"

"With antidepressants?" Bennet questioned. "I searched your bag. You don't want to go the Isaac route, Peter."

"I _know_. That's why I've been trying to train myself—I even went to the Arizona desert for a month, so I wouldn't hurt anybody. But no matter what I do, I can't control it." Peter looked up at him. "That's why I came here, Noah."

Bennet sighed, looking away. He knew where this was going. And Peter even used his first name, the little bastard. That had simply been a spur-of-the-moment, pre-apocalypse sort of thing you tell someone. Now Peter was using it to get a favor.

"Can you help me learn how to control my powers?"

"That's not what you asked for when you called," Bennet stated. "Ask for one thing or another, Peter, not both. I've got responsibilities to my family here."

"Look, I can find Nathan by myself if I have to," he haggled. "But I really need your help on this one."

Bennet looked at him, curious. "And why do you believe that I can help you, Peter?"

"Because you knew Claude personally," Peter said boldly. "Am I right? And don't try to evade that one, I remember you from that night on the Deveaux rooftop. …Claude taught me how to use my abilities, you can do the same, right?"

There was no answer for a moment. Then, he said, "Just because I know a man doesn't mean I have the same penchant for teaching."

"But you worked with Ted Sprague. I think you know how this whole nuclear thing works. That's why you gave me the tranquilizer, right?"

He waved off Peter's comment. "It's a temporary fix. If I had given it to you seconds later, when you had amassed enough energy to blow up, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now, even with tranquilizers."

"Then show me how to fix it permanently," Peter insisted. "I need to learn how to control it, like Ted did."

"Ted _did_ do the same thing you did," said Bennet, irate now. "He holed himself up in a shack, taught himself everything he knows. _Knew_, actually." He said bitterly, catching himself at the end.

"What's the difference, then? Why didn't I learn how to control my power?"

"I imagine that insecurity complex of yours might've had something to do with it," Bennet muttered.

Peter's brow furrowed. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Please, I watched that 'fight' you had with Sylar," he said critically. "You barely made a move until you gained confidence from having the upper-hand. You've no doubt realized that the man has a better mastery of his skills than you do, haven't you?"

"Are you fucking trying to tell me that _Sylar_ was better than me?" Peter questioned, standing up.

"I would _never_ say that about someone who's wronged me more than once," said Bennet, raising his voice but still calm. "I'm only trying to tell you that he has a harder time _obtaining_ abilities than you do; he has to hone _and_ use his skills in order to earn more," he pointed out. "And yes, Peter, I used the present tense there. Sylar survived. He escaped into the sewers not too long after you exploded."

Peter stared, looking into the neighborhood with a distressed countenance. "So…Sylar's still alive?"

"Yes, and with better proficiency in radioactivity than you have. Even if I agreed to spend all my time teaching you, I couldn't help you with your damn confidence problem."

"I could," said Claire. Both men turned to find her standing in the doorway, watching their argument. "At least, I could try."

"How long you been there, Claire?" Bennet asked softly.

"Came into the conversation about the same time Sylar did," she answered. "And confidence is something you can work on, Dad, just like any other skill." She looked over at Peter sympathetically. "I could definitely help you with that. I was a cheerleader, after all."

Peter smiled at his niece. "My own support squad, huh? That'd be nice."

"Come on Dad, help Peter out. He's practically like your brother-in-law."

Bennet laughed slightly; it was amazing how skilled Claire was at mediating situations. Or maybe he was always just too ready to agree with her. "Fine, I'll do it," he answered at last, though there was some noticeable reluctance. "But in regards to Nathan, you have to swear that you'll postpone that search if you hear _anything_ about Sylar going on another spree."

"I will," said Peter resolutely. "People's lives are a priority, I understand that."

"Good. Well then, Peter Petrelli, you have a tutor." He extended his hand, and Peter shook it.

"And a cheerleader, don't forget," said Claire.

"Never would," Peter replied, giving her a hug. "Thanks so much for this Claire, Noah."

Bennet shook his head. He made a mental note to attach another clause to that unwritten contract; if Peter ever gave anyone else his first name, he'd strangle the boy, nuclear or not.


	3. In a Flash

_Major thanks goes out to Chakram for her fantastic fic research help! Peter, Claire, and Noah greatly appreciate it, as do I _:D

**3. In a Flash**

"Sit down, please. Are you thirsty?"

Mohinder had brought the very nervous Lucy to his apartment later that day, and although he tried to be as pleasant as possible, there was only so far you could go while pointing a gun into another person's back. Once he got to the apartment, he put it back into his coat, but made sure Lucy sat within his field of vision as he entered the kitchen.

"I think this milk's old," said Mohinder, examining his fridge. "We do have cranberry juice, and guava too, which one do you-"

"—Are you some kind of psychopath or something?" Lucy asked him from the living room, embracing a couch cushion as tears started to well in her eyes.

"Uh, excuse me?" Mohinder asked, turning around to find an utterly terrified look on Lucy's face.

"I said I'd return your shit, and you decide to take me home to your-your…your serial killer bachelor pad or whatever!" she shouted, crying now. "And then you have to be all nice and friendly about it, just to creep me out even more!"

Hold on, did she just compare him to…?

"Look, I'm…I'm sorry," Mohinder said urgently, absolutely astounded that he was even being _accused_ of this. "I didn't mean to scare you, I just-"

"Like hell you didn't mean to scare me!!"

"Now wait a minute, Lucy," Mohinder started, pulling out his gun slowly and setting it on the table. "You see that? I don't even have the gun on me now! Will you _please_ just relax, I don't have _any_ intentions of-"

"Mohinder?" called Molly's voice. She was standing in the hallway entrance to the living room, still in her pajamas.

Lucy stared openly at Molly in horror, looking back at Mohinder with absolute fury. "Good God, did you kidnap _her_ too, you sick fuck?!"

"No!" He yelled, feeling absolutely out of his depth now, and vaguely aware that Molly's ears were not covered for that last sentence. "Molly, please go back to your room for a few minutes, okay?"

Turning back to Lucy, he said, "Look, you have the wrong impression about me! I'm sorry I scared you, but I needed to talk to you about-"

"—Mohinder, I'm burning up again," said Molly, coughing. "Could I have some more cranberry juice?"

It took Mohinder a while to process the request, given that she was the only one in the room not yelling. Eventually he realized it gave him a reason to go into the kitchen and hide for a few minutes, so he kissed Molly on the head and retrieved it for her, asking a still hysterical Lucy to wait a moment.

Molly, meanwhile, sensing that Mohinder wasn't handling his situation very well, sat down on the couch next to Lucy. "My name is Molly," she told her.

"I'm…Lucy…"

"Pleased to meet you, Lucy," Molly said, smiling graciously. "Why are you mad at Dr. Suresh?"

Lucy stared. "Sorry, did you say _doctor_?"

"Yes, he's been taking care of me for the past few months. I'm really sick. I'm not well enough to do what I can do yet."

"What is it you do?" she asked curiously.

"I find people," said Molly, thanking Mohinder as he set the glass on the coffee table. Clearly terrified of Lucy now, he let Molly deal with the situation. When in doubt, leave it to a ten year-old, he smartly reasoned.

"All I do is think about a person, and I know where they are," Molly continued. She took a sip of her juice, and then looked back at Lucy, deciding to ask, "What do you do?"

"What do you mean, 'what do I do?'"

"Well, what makes you special?" Molly asked. "That's why Mohinder brought you here, right?"

Lucy looked over at Mohinder now, more confused than angry now, but still just as scary, at least to him. "What is she talking about?"

"On the subway, when you stole my wallet," he started carefully, trying not to overdo any emotion. "And when you stole that woman's Blackberry. You barely had a split-second opening in either case. How did you do it?"

Now skeptical, she looked over at Molly for guidance. "You're sure I can trust him?"

Molly nodded. "He's taken good care of me for the past few months. I'd trust Mohinder with anything."

Lucy sighed. She pointed at the glass of water Mohinder had gotten for her. "Watch that," she told them.

Mohinder and Molly stared at the glass, and in a split second, it disappeared. At almost the same instant, Mohinder became vaguely aware of a growing coldness spreading throughout his crotch. He looked down.

Lucy held the now empty glass in one hand, its contents very recently thrown into Mohinder's pants. Molly giggled.

"Anyone could do that," Mohinder muttered, standing straight and groping around for the handkerchief he always kept in his jacket.

"But they couldn't do that and grab these," said Lucy, holding up Mohinder's gun and handkerchief in her other hand. "I've got super-speed." Molly stared, a decidedly impressed look on her face. Though annoyed, Mohinder managed an amazed smile as well.

He reached out for his gun, but Lucy withheld it, staring at him cautiously. "Wait a second, Water-Crotch," she said directly, "if you're a doctor, what's with the gun? And the creepiness, and the live-in patient?"

Sighing, Mohinder realized that it was time to set things straight. "I'm afraid I've had quite the year," he explained. "A few run-ins with some unpleasant people forced me to acquire a gun. And actually, I'm a geneticist, and I'm here to help special people like yourself and Molly." He looked at her very seriously. "I'm very sorry for scaring you, Lucy, I never meant to do that."

"I think those unpleasant people rubbed off on you," said Lucy, genial now. "But, I can't blame a guy for having balls. Apology accepted. Anyway, is this really what you wanted to make a deal about? My ability?"

"Yes," he answered, "I'm going to be traveling soon, I'm looking for a permanent cure for Molly's illness. But it's going to be a bit of an adventure; there are people out there who want to use Molly's ability for terrible ends. That's why I'll need someone to come with me. Someone who can help me out with the little obstacles these people would set."

"In exchange for me giving you your things back? That doesn't sound like a very fair deal, doctor."

"I would pay for everything, of course. And I'm sure you could make a contribution to funds as well," he grinned knowingly at Lucy. "Mostly, what I can offer is travel and a chance to find out swho you are, and to meet other people like yourself and Molly.

"But, if you're fine staying here in Chicago," Mohinder continued, "picking the pockets of rich businessmen and wannabe serial killers, then I wouldn't stand in your way. I leave the choice to you, Lucy."

Lucy sat in silent thought for about a minute. "I'll do it," she said finally, without much explanation, "but only for Molly. I can tell she thinks you need a babysitter."

The look on Molly's face seemed to confirm this, and Mohinder laughed. "A babysitter it is, then."

* * *

"So _this_ is supposed to be the classroom for Nuclear Powers 101?" asked Peter, surveying the cavernous room of the abandoned facility Bennet had just broken them into. 

Bennet was examining a small operations room at the far end of the space, knocking at the surprisingly sturdy observation window. Mentally, he decided the room would be suitable enough to act as a fallout shield, provided they stayed back a ways from the window.

"This place used to be known as the Mound Laboratory," he told Peter, "proud manufacturer of nuclear weapon detonators for 46 years. It's been closed for a while, so this facility is practically tailor-made for you to practice your ability."

"So then I don't have to worry about the radiation I leave behind? Since no one else goes in here, right?"

"Not unless the city eventually decides to do something with this facility," he said, unconcerned. "In which case, I suppose you _could_ worry."

Peter suddenly realized that he had recruited himself yet another teacher with suspect morals. But he figured that the Midwest probably didn't have many safe places for a radioactive man to practice his skill anyhow. He forgot this concern once he saw Claire walking up an old staircase, lugging a backpack full of tranquilizers while talking on the phone.

"Does Claire have a boyfriend or something?" Peter asked, noticing Claire's animated gestures and more than excessive use of the words 'dork,' 'whatever,' and 'shut _up_!' echoing through the empty room.

Bennet shook his head. "Not yet, although it seems like they'll close the deal any day now."

"What's his name?"

"Rodrigo Jimenez." He chuckled slightly as he watched Claire, his mood a little more human and relatable than the previous day. "The worst part is he's a nerd _and_ a basketball player. That means the only thing I can hate him for is his XY gene."

This elicited a laugh from Peter. "Don't worry; if he dates Claire, then I could probably find a hateable thing or two." It was at that point that Mr. Bennet began to appreciate Peter's position as uncle to Claire. If anything, it provided a united front against any suitors…at least until she was 30.

"Rodrigo, you are the biggest _dork_," she was saying into the phone. "…What? No, I don't think you should skip practice again, slacker…Ha, whatever! Hey, listen, I've got to go, can I call you back? …Okay, talk to you later!"

"Who was that, your drug dealer?" Peter asked teasingly as she walked up to him. "I see that backpack full of drugs, Claire, it looks mighty suspicious."

"Oh no, it doesn't look suspicious at _all_," Claire replied. "Just wait until I break out with the crystal meth." The words 'crystal meth' coming out of Claire's mouth elicited a strange look from him. "Peter, I'm joking," she insisted.

"Um, yeah. …I know that."

She rolled her eyes. "You were the one who started it, you know."

"Yeah, but I didn't know you kids knew so much about drugs!"

Claire laughed. "If you had kids, you would make for the World's Most Oblivious Dad."

"I'll settle with world's Most Oblivious Uncle for now, thanks. But uh," he dropped his voice, "listen, Claire, I wanted to thank you again. For doing this. It seriously means a lot to me."

She almost didn't know what to say. "You should thank my dad, if you wanted to do that," she told him. "I'm just the girl who's supposed to tranquilize you if you start freaking out again."

"Hey, don't act like you're the water girl," said Peter adamantly. "You being here means more than you'll ever know. And besides, you're my cheerleader, right? You've gotta keep my spirits up if the going gets tough."

Claire nodded, smiling. "I don't have the pom-poms, but you know I'll try."

Bennet finished preparing the area and soon Peter was standing of the middle of the vast space, looking over at the shelter area where Claire and her father stood ready to give instructions.

"What Ted Sprague learned," Bennet started, "is that his power was driven by his emotions, so it reacted strongly to any increase of adrenaline in his system. It seems to work the same way for you, Peter, because it triggered right after you fought with Sylar, when your adrenaline levels hit a certain breaking point.

"Your problem is that when you can't control your power, your body accumulates the radiation until you release it all in one massive explosion. In Ted's case, when he was injured, for example, he emitted a constant wave of radiation _while_ accumulating at a slower rate, so his explosion didn't detonate as quickly or in as powerful a form as yours did.

"So right now, Peter," said Bennet, watching as Claire prepared a syringe, "the tranquilizer I gave you earlier should be wearing off, so while you're at a resting position, you will try to summon your radioactivity. It is _imperative _that you stay calm the entire time, because your adrenaline levels will accumulate the energy. Try to concentrate only on creating small bursts of energy for right now. If it overwhelms you, Claire will be ready to help you out."

It was a lot to take in, but Peter was significantly encouraged by Claire's faithful smile. "Don't be scared, Peter, you can totally do this!" she shouted. "I know you can do it, I believe in you!" He smiled back, newly motivated. "Do you want me to do 'Peter Peter, He's Our Man!' or no?" she asked. Snorting, he shook his head.

"Are you ready?" Bennet asked.

Peter nodded determinedly. Closing his eyes, he took a few deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. Absolutely calm. Silence surrounded him. He thought of Ted Sprague.

He felt the electrons surge through him immediately, not slow but nice and steady. Energy streamed through his chest and limbs. Opening his eyes, he saw his arms, now the same red glow they had been that fateful night in Kirby Plaza but fainter this time.

"That's it, Peter!" Claire yelled. "You're doing great!"

"Now, concentrate on generating small bursts!" Bennet instructed.

Peter looked down at his hands again, continuing to regulate his breathing carefully. _Small, small_, he thought, closing his eyes again. _Focus. Make small bursts…_

But his focus broke, when an abrupt vision of Nathan disappearing within the flash and fire suddenly triggered in Peter's mind. He heard Bennet yelling, and he opened his eyes to find his arms now bright red, emitting heat and energy waves into the air.

In the back of his mind he sensed the prick in his back, and gratefully he soon found himself swimming in instant tranquility once more, the energy rapidly abating inside of him. He was at peace.

Flashes of light appeared before his eyes. "Nathan…?"

"Peter!" came another voice. "Peter, please wake up!"

He was on the floor now, Claire kneeling over him in anxious terror while her father stood watching.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You lost control…" said Claire, her voice trembling.

"Did I hurt anyone?" She shook her head. "So what'd I do?"

"You proved that you're going to need a _lot_ of work," said Bennet, shaking his head.

* * *

Light invaded his eyes like a damn parasite. 

To top it off, he was incredibly cold, feverish. Hangovers were always like that, he remembered. He'd had more than his share in college and law school.

But this was different…

He became aware of a steady beeping around him. There was the soft whirr and hum of machines. He couldn't move.

And this light. It was fluorescent and annoying, but it was bright enough to prompt the memory. The explosion. Miles above New York. The energy, the flash of fire in his eyes. Peter…Claire…

The realization hit Nathan Petrelli quickly. He had _survived._


	4. The Beheaded Cockroach

_Wanted: Beta reader for upcoming chapters to give me characterization feedback. Compensation...my gratitude? Message me if you're interested._

**4. The Beheaded Cockroach**

Matt Parkman decided that he didn't miss Audrey Hansen as much as he initially thought. And he decided that he didn't like Baltimore. He also decided that he _definitely_ wasn't going to read any more priests minds for a _long_ time. There were a lot of things one was prone to deciding during your flight and taxi ride home from the most tedious assignment ever.

Honestly, the only good thing that was going to come with this was a possible early return to work, and another recommendation from Audrey for the detective's exam. But Matt wasn't even certain he wanted to sit for that again. He certainly stood a better chance of passing this time (he had had a _lot_ of free time for studying during his recovery), but as Janice's due date approached, he naturally anticipated fatherhood more and more. How much time would be he able to contribute to taking care of his child? Would he even be a good detective, given there was a chance he wouldn't be sleeping very well for the next few years? There were a lot of things for Matt to consider in his free time, all while dealing with his _abnormally _hormonal (he swore this to everyone) wife.

He got to his doorstep, fishing around for his keys. Although he was sure what he'd be debating with himself all weekend, he was glad he didn't have to deal with anything else. Audrey's frustration with her case gave him enough grief for one week.

Entering his home, he found an Indian geneticist, a ten year-old human Mapquest, and a quirkily dressed Asian girl sitting on his couch.

"Matt, babe!" said Janice, walking in from the kitchen, "Look who came to…" She saw her husband staring at their three guests. "…Visit." She finished.

"Officer Parkman!" Molly exclaimed, running over to embrace him.

He was happy to receive the hug from the little girl, but as he watched Suresh stand up from his place on the couch, he couldn't help but realize that his whole weekend schedule was probably just shot to hell.

* * *

There was a ringing, and then a voice. "Mr. Petrelli's awake," said the young woman standing over him, answering her phone. "…Understood, sir. See you soon." She hung up and smiled at Nathan. "Good morning, congressman." 

He tried to speak, but it was hard to push it out of his voice box. Nothing more than a hoarse croak came out.

"I wouldn't try to do much yet, if I were you," she told him. "You're sick. But you should be good as new pretty soon. You remember the explosion? Better yet, do you remember who you are? Blink once for yes, twice for no."

He blinked once.

"That wasn't just a natural blink, was it?" No, it wasn't. He blinked twice. "Great, Mr. Petrelli. My boss will be pleased. By the way, my name is Candice."

She seemed nice enough, but there was a certain falseness natural to her voice. As if she could be inclined to pull off his oxygen mask, tear off the tube, and shove it down his gullet at any given moment. And smile snottily the entire time. Nathan wasn't scared of her, though, simply aware. At any rate, there wasn't much he could do but blink her away.

"It's been four months, you know," said Candice, "since you died."

_Since I **died**? Gee, that's a sensitive way of referring to my being comatose._ Nathan didn't like this girl.

"But you're alive now, thanks in no small part to Mr. Linderman. _He_ may be dead," she said this with a bitter edge to her voice, "but he left you with one last favor."

Candice picked up a remote, and turned on the TV across the room. "Why don't you catch up on the news while we're waiting?" Nathan was lying flat, so he couldn't see, but could hear it just fine.

"…No new developments in the case of New York congressman-elect Nathan Petrelli and his brother, Peter Petrelli, who have been missing since November 8th, 2006. However we do have word that the FBI is scaling down their search for the brothers, which in four months, has produced little evidence to their whereabouts. Mrs. Heidi Petrelli, wife of Nathan Petrelli, could not be reached for comment…"

Nathan's eyes widened at the news, and he was vaguely aware that Candice was watching his bewildered horror with some interest.

_I've been missing?!_ He looked into Candice's eyes hatefully, wishing he could scream. _I'm not even in a fucking hospital? For God's sake, my wife and kids aren't even aware that I'm alive! _

"I'm sorry we couldn't tell your family," she said, inferring a lot from his furious stare. "But we couldn't tell anyone. It's the boss's orders."

_Who the hell are you? Where's my brother, what have you done to him? _And the sad prospect hit him instantaneously.

…_Is Peter even alive?_

"But how does it feel?" Candice asked him, leaning in. "Waking up in a new world?" And then, withdrawing with a smug smile, she said, "Must be a pretty bad trip."

The tempo of his heart rate monitor accelerated, the only sign of the intense frustration storming inside. _Shut the hell up and tell me what's going on! Where is Peter? Who are you, why won't you-_

The door opened again, and Candice left Nathan, walking over to the man who had just entered.

"Good morning, Mr. Aster," she greeted.

"Hello Candice," returned a young Englishman, it sounded like. The tall, pale man walked over, watching a still fuming Nathan with interest. He looked only a few years older than Peter, wearing a very fine suit and blond, clean cut sideburns.

"Nice to meet you at last, Mr. Petrelli," he greeted amiably. "My name is John Aster." He pulled up a chair and sat down at his bedside, as if intent on making it a welcoming visit. "Although we've never met, we have a bit of a connection. Both of us have lost our fathers in the past year. You knew mine, Mr. Linderman."

At any other time, Nathan would've been surprised. Linderman was a deceptively genial son of a bitch, but the man gave _no_ indication whatsoever of having a son. Nathan didn't think even his _father_ knew about his best friend's family, aside from the wedding band.

But obviously, Nathan was still lying paralyzed in a bed, unaware of where he was and listening to a condescending Brit yap at him about his heritage. So the shock wasn't there. _What the hell is this? Are you going to tell me where I am?_ He wondered._ What's happened? Why am I here?_

"I rarely got to see Dad," Aster continued on, to Nathan's dismay. "My mother and I lived in London, but he made it a point to visit every holiday. Didn't want to go too long without seeing his own special boy. He said it always rejuvenated him. Speaking of which-" he examined Nathan's charts, "you've recovered very nicely. You should be well fairly soon. And you'll be well enough to talk even sooner. Be able to voice all that pent-up anger of yours, eh?"

_Goddamn bastard._

He smiled sympathetically at Nathan. "I'm sorry we had to do things this way. I'll explain it to you in due time, I promise. Be glad you're here now, awake."

Aster checked his watch. "I need to be leaving in a few minutes," he explained, "I have a company to reestablish, you see. After my father's death, and then all the information sabotage…this organization and its cause almost didn't survive. But," a bizarrely proud, wistful look came across his face, "I like to think that this company is nearly indestructible. Able to withstand anything. I have a lot of faith in its rebirth." He looked intently at Nathan now. "If even a beheaded cockroach can live to see another day, then so can my father's legacy."

He said goodbye, and exited with Candice, leaving Nathan alone in his new universe.

* * *

Peter was unconscious again. 

It had to be at least the fifth time this week. And Claire hadn't even needed to give him tranquilizer; Bennet had thrown a few plates into the air for him to shoot a few fireballs at when one soared a little too low and smashed into Peter's head.

Bennet had worked very hard to make that one look like an accident. His entire routine of throwing the plates was carefully plotted out, calculated so that the one toss looked like a slip of the wrist, complimented by the appropriate look of surprise. And it worked _marvelously_; Claire rushed over to Peter immediately without another word. Of course, that meant that the guy still needed much more practice using his instincts in a fight, but at least now he had a good indication of where Peter was with his skill.

"Dad, is he okay?"

He squinted nonchalantly as he examined Peter's healed forehead wound. "He looks perfectly fine. Tell you what, Claire-bear, we'll let him have a little nap. He's been working hard."

"…You're going to let him nap on the dirty floor?"

"Why not? That seems to be his favorite place."

Claire laughed. "Dad…"

Bennet took off his jacket, handing it to her. "You can put this under his head."

Carefully, she tucked it under Peter's hair, surprised that he didn't even wake up or stir. "He's gotten a lot better, huh?" she told her father, with a proud grin.

"_Much_ better than a few days ago," he answered, smiling back. "He should have it completely under control very soon. I think your cheerleading really helped him."

Claire stood up and hugged her father. "He couldn't have done it without your help, though. Thanks for doing that, Dad."

"Don't worry about it, honey. I owed him, anyhow. For saving you." They picked up the tranquilizers and started walking back to the shelter area, leaving Peter to doze away.

"You mind checking up on your mom?" he asked, as he started to pack everything.

"Come on Dad, she's with Lyle, she's fine-"

His eyes peered at her over his glasses. "_Claire_…"

She sighed, pulling her phone out. Her father had been very adamant about taking care of her mother, ever since they moved into town with their new identities. It was one of the few things he really focused on these days, since working a legitimate job in an industry as booming as personal computers still bored him to death.

"Hey, Rodrigo left me a message!" she noticed, dialing her voicemail excitedly. She had a huge grin on her face the entire time she listened. "I'll call him right after I check on Mom," she said.

"You know, I still haven't met this boy yet," her father pointed out, trying to sound as casual as possible.

She rolled her eyes. "Dad, we're not even going out-"

"—Now hold on, Claire. Please, if you would just humor my parental paranoia for a second."

"And do I have to keep doing that until you're 80?"

"No, I think by that time I'll probably be senile," he joked. "But just let me know what you think, because I'd like to know your _objective_ opinion about him."

Claire eyes lit up when she thought about Rodrigo. So much for an objective opinion. "He's really funny and sweet. And he's smart too. I told you he wants to be a lawyer."

"And do you think he would be a problem?" he asked seriously.

Rodrigo _was_ prone to cutting classes on occasion, along with other harmless offenses, but she knew very well that this wasn't what her father was asking about. "No," she answered certainly. "Everyone at school thinks he's a great guy, and _really_ dependable. I haven't heard any rumors about him, either, and his friends told me he doesn't even date that often."

He smiled. "Alright then. I just wanted to know, Claire-bear."

"Don't worry, Dad," she said, "I know which boys are worth it now."

A groan echoed in the open room outside, and they saw Peter stirring from his nap. "Five more minutes, Mom…" He muttered, turning over. "Okay, but only if there's waffles…"

Claire laughed as her father watched him quizzically. "Definitely not one of Peter's more heroic moments," she noted.

* * *

"—I'm so sorry about this, Matt. I really don't mean to impose on you, and I did call, but no one was at home," said Mohinder apologetically, as he went over to another open suitcase, rummaging through it urgently. "But my flight is tonight, and I was running out of time." 

"Hey I told you, it's no problem, I love Molly," said Matt, although he felt somewhat flustered watching the professor continue to hurry back and forth across the guest room. "Anyway, I think Jan had a bunch of doctor's appointments this week, that's why she wasn't able to answer your calls."

Mohinder found what he was looking for, a bag containing several pill bottles, and went over to Molly's suitcase, packing it in securely. "These are Molly's medicines; she needs to take all of them every night and one of them in the morning. Don't worry, she's good about keeping on schedule." He paused for a second, as if in thought, and then abruptly he rushed over to the mess in his suitcase, his hand groping for something under a pile of shirts.

"Um, did you forget something in Chicago?" Matt asked.

"No…I'm just-no, that's not it. Is it in the other suitcase? …No Matt, actually, I'm just _incredibly_ disorganized. No, not this one…"

"Look, why don't you go ahead and sort this out after lunch?" he suggested. "You're going to be leaving Molly for a week, she's going to miss you."

He looked over at Matt, still looking a little distressed. "Well, I suppose I can do this later-"

"—Yeah, you can, Mohinder. Come on, relax. She told me that you've been really high-strung lately."

"…Molly said that?"

"She's a little concerned about you, yeah."

Mohinder rubbed his temples. "It's just that Molly needs so much attention, especially because of her illness, and…I don't know, I honestly don't think I'm cut out for this 'parenting' thing."

Matt snorted. "Hey, I have a kid coming in five months, do you think _I'm_ ready for it? I'm scared to death, man. I'm afraid that I'll screw it up. But Jan keeps telling me that it's something you work at. It's terrifying, but you'll do fine, with practice."

"I suppose you're right…Still, it would be nice to have help taking care of Molly."

"What about that girl, Lucy?"

Mohinder laughed at the notion of Lucy as a babysitter. "Molly has to actually help me supervise _her_. Lucy's _very_ prone to trouble."

"Why are you taking her along, then?"

"Because that's the kind of person I'm going to need to help me, Matt," he said seriously. "Even though I'm only going to Portugal to speak to a scientist about a cure, I can't risk _anything _anymore, just because Molly's ability is so important to other people."

He noticed that Matt had a rather impressed look on his face. "What?" he asked.

"You've got the whole protective thing down," he observed. "That's the most important skill of any parent."

* * *

He woke up to darkness, once again. 

And that _smell_. But he was used to the routine.

Crawling out of bed, he went upstairs to his dingy bathroom, splashing water on himself in the sink. The mirror reminded him that he was in need of a shave. He looked over at the can of shaving cream on the shelf, and raised his hand.

The canister flew easily into his palm.

He smirked. That was the fastest he's been since November. With another small gesture, the razor followed, and he proceeded to dab his jaw. While shaving he nicked a spot under his chin, but he pointed his finger at it, allowing a thin layer of ice to cover the area momentarily. He brushed it off, and the wound was clean.

_The precision is better_, he thought to himself as he looked in the mirror. _Soon I'll be ready_.

When he finished, he went down his favorite tunnel, peering up at a grate. It was sunny outside. Not a cloud in the sky.

Sylar smiled. He had healed, had recovered into his old self again. _Such resilience. I bet I could even survive the end of the world_.

Gazing up into the grate fixedly, he looked forward to the brand new day, the brand new _hunt_.


	5. Samurai's Return

_Many thanks __to rock-n-roll-suicide-queen for the beta! And sorry for the wait. Next chapter will be up way sooner, promise._

**5. Samurai's Return**

Hiro was afraid to open his eyes. After all he'd seen in the 17th century, the bloodshed, the fighting, the war…

He couldn't help but worry about what home he'd returned to.

Sylar was able to send him flying across the Plaza, even after Hiro had stabbed him through the heart. Hiro did not know what came next in the story. Did Sylar explode? Did Peter? Would New York City still be there when he opened his eyes? Or would it be a déjà vu of his trip into the future?

His eyelids lifted.

He was in Kirby Plaza. And everything was intact.

Hiro's heart raced wildly with joy, but he knew to restrain himself. He had to make sure, first. "Excuse me!" Hiro yelled at a boy playing a PSP by the fountain. "Excuse me! Can you tell me, what is today?"

The boy gave Hiro a weird look, as if he were diseased. Eventually he managed, "It's Monday."

"Yes, but day, the date? What is the date?"

"March 16th."

"And the year! What is the year??" Hiro asked more urgently.

"Um, 2007…"

There was a beat, but it didn't take long for realization to set in. "YATTA!" Hiro yelped, and the boy jumped from his spot on the bench. Excited, Hiro hugged him, jumping up and down. "New York is saved! New York is saved!!"

Genuinely freaked _out_, the boy pried himself out from Hiro's hug and walked away hastily, muttering something that sounded like, 'not from weirdos like you' under his breath. Hiro glanced around, happily setting his eyes on the sights and sounds of New York all over again.

* * *

"Matt's wife makes really good macaroni," Molly was telling Mohinder, as they strolled down the Parkmans' neighborhood. "She even used real cheddar cheese!" 

"Well, at least you won't have to pretend to like my Easy Mac anymore," said Mohinder, smiling.

"Hey, I like your Easy Mac! You microwave good Easy Mac!" Mohinder didn't reply; he simply continued walking into the sunset with her, enjoying the feel of her small hand in his palm. "You don't have to go, Mohinder," she told him, looking up. "I don't want you to."

He stopped walking and knelt down, reaching eye level with her. "Molly, I have to do this. I'm going to go talk to another scientist about making you better. But I won't be gone long. I'll be back in a week, and then Lucy and I can take you to the aquarium again."

"Why does Lucy get to go with you? Why can't I?"

"Because we don't want to force the Parkmans to take care of her," he said with a wink. Molly laughed. "And we need you to stay here, so you'll be safe."

"From the Boogeyman?"

His encouraging demeanor dropped. He looked into Molly's eyes sadly. "Are you still having nightmares about the Boogeyman?"

"I had one the other night," she whispered. "Right before we left. I dreamed that…that he woke up. And he said he was ready. But I don't know where he is."

"Molly," said Mohinder, "I've told Matt about the Boogeyman. He's going to protect you. And as soon as I find your cure, I _swear_ I'll be back right away. I promise. I won't let him get you."

He gave her a long, reassuring hug, and she kissed him on the cheek to show that she understood. They walked back together to the Parkman's, where the taxi was already waiting out in front.

"I don't think you should use walks with Molly just to get out of loading the cab," Lucy whined, as she put the last of their suitcases in.

"I'll make it up to you when we get there," Mohinder sighed. "Did you get everything?"

"_Yes_, we did," said Matt, not wanting him to run upstairs and tear apart their guest room looking for a missing map or whatever. "And you double-checked everything right before you went out, so you guys should be fine."

"I suppose we should be going, then." He hugged Molly one last time, as did Lucy.

"I'll watch him for you," Lucy told her, and lowering her voice, added, "and I'll swipe you some Portuguese things on the way!" Molly laughed.

"Thanks again, Matt. _Please_ call me about anything, okay? Especially-"

"—I know." Matt looked grimly serious. "Believe me, I'm ready, if he comes."

They shook hands. Mohinder and Lucy got in, and soon the taxi was far down the street and out of sight. Matt held Molly's hand, and they followed Janice inside.

"Don't be sad, Molly," he told her, shutting the door. "They'll be back soon." She nodded, but she still stared out the window longingly. "Tell you what, you want to help me pick out toys for my baby's nursery over the internet? I think you'd know more about this than I would."

She continued to stare out the window for a time before she agreed, and took Matt's hand. But as soon as they took only a few steps up the stair, the doorbell rang. Matt opened the door, to find Mohinder standing there, holding Lucy by the collar.

"Lucy wants to return something to you," he told Matt simply. He gave her a sharp look, and out of her bag she salvaged some nice glass coasters, a metallic candle holder, and several picture frames.

"Sorry," she said, looking down at her feet.

Matt received the stolen items somewhat incredulously, but once they were all back in his hands, he smiled over at Molly. "See? Told you they'd be back."

* * *

"Ando!!" 

He could barely believe the voice he had just heard. Looking around the cubicles, making sure that no one would catch him being 'crazy' again, Ando spoke into the phone. "…Hiro?"

"Yes, Ando, it is me!"

"Hiro!!" Ando yelled, effectively thwarting his own attempt at being incognito. Noticing the stares around the office, he lowered his voice. "Hiro, where are you? What happened to you?"

"I am back in New York!" he said excitedly. "And it is saved! There was no explosion!"

"I saw the news!" Ando responded, smiling. "But, there _was_ an explosion."

"...Wha?"

Ando laughed. He missed Hiro and his happy energy so much. "Here, I'll explain it to you. Can you get to a computer?"

Hiro out the cell phone down and looked across the café table at the lovely young lady smiling giddily at him. "Excuse me Andrea," he asked in English, "may I use your laptop as well, please?"

"Well I don't know, Hiro," she giggled. "Can I get another flower?"

He grinned. "I can do better than that!" He scrunched up his face intently. A second later, he pulled out a whole bouquet of roses from behind his back with a heart-shaped box of chocolates. "How is this?"

"Hiro…" she gasped, staring at the gift, "this is _amazing_, I don't…how did you-"

"—May I use your laptop?"

"Sure," she said distractedly, "do whatever you want, _wow_…"

He brought the laptop over to his side of the table. "Ando, are you still there? I have a computer."

"Okay, go to YouTube," Ando instructed. "Type in, 'New York explosion conspiracy.' Go to the first video."

Hiro was puzzled, but he did it anyway. The video was from a shaky amateur's video camera, and was pointed at the New York city skyline. From the bottom of the screen, a bright figure, like a comet, flew out of the Kirby Plaza area, soaring higher and higher into the night sky. The cameraman swore and yelled in excitement, following the light as it zoomed out of sight. A second later a flash of light erupted into the clouds, creating a magnificent blast of light miles and miles above Manhattan and eliciting a "HOLY SHIT!" from the cameraman.

In great shock, Hiro sat staring at the screen, speechless. Below the video were various comments on the bad special effects and a debate on whether or not it was a leaked sci-fi movie trailer.

"Hiro," said Ando, "did you watch it?"

"Yes…" he answered slowly. "Peter Petrelli, he…exploded?"

"I think so. He and his brother, Nathan Petrelli, they've been missing ever since that night. No one knows what happened."

"Flying Man?" Hiro uttered, blinking. "Flying Man is missing?" Did that mean…was Nathan Petrelli in the video? Did _he_ save New York after all?

"I don't know." There was a long silence. "Look Hiro, I'm sorry, but I have to ask about _you_, too," Ando told him. "I haven't seen you for four months! Where have you been? Your family has been looking for you."

"My family?"

"Yes. Your father stepped down from Yamagato to look for you, and your sister is having trouble running the corporation without him. …Come on Hiro, tell me where you've been!"

Hiro's voice took on a serious tone, the very reverent one he always used whenever describing some aspect of the 'hero code.' "I have been in the past, Ando. In 1671."

"_1671_?" Ando repeated, incredulous.

"Yes, I met Takezo Kensei, I helped him in battle," he said very matter-of-factly. "And then for two months, I was his apprentice. I learned a wealth about valor, tradition, and loyalty under him. I improved my swordsmanship as well. But, I had to return, because I have a mission here in the present."

"Mission?" he asked, confused. "But New York didn't explode! It was saved! You must come back, Hiro, your family is worried about you, and so am I!"

As insistent as his friend was, and as much as he missed his parents and sister, Hiro just couldn't agree to do that. "I am sorry, Ando. In the past, I met another special woman. She _knew _that I was from the future, Ando, she could tell! She told me that 2007 was where my path lay, and that my first great mission would come once I returned. And this is it. This is my mission." His voice took on his higher, unwavering tone as he declared, "I must find Nathan and Peter Petrelli!"

Hiro was certain he could hear his friend's brow furrowing over the line. "But Hiro…" Ando started, getting back into doubtful sidekick mode again, "No one's been able to find them! They've had people looking for months!"

"That's because I have to be the one," he answered determinedly. "It is my task, only I am able to accomplish it. Besides," he dropped his serious air, "you still have my sword! I need to come back and get it, remember? I'll be back. I promise."

Ando sat at his desk, shaking his head dejectedly. "I could never stop you before, Hiro," he said, knowing this as fact. "Just be back as soon as you can, okay? And call me if you need help."

"Of course, Ando! But…can I ask you a favor? Don't tell my family I'm back yet, okay?"

He laughed. "Don't worry, no one will know. Everyone here thinks I'm crazy for going to America, anyway."

"Well someday," Hiro said resolutely, "everyone will know that you are _really_ a loyal friend. Goodbye, Ando!!"

The line went dead, and Ando sat there, thinking about what Hiro had just said to him. Maybe he couldn't have his friend back yet, but he at least knew where he was, and that he was doing what he did best; helping people and saving the world.

And, most importantly, Hiro was alive.

"YATTA!" Ando yelled, jumping up and scaring the shit out of everyone in the office.

And he couldn't possibly care less.


	6. The Next Move

**6. The Next Move**

Damon the Polar Bear slowly released his hold on gravity, floating higher and higher into the air. When he was about seven feet above the ground, he suddenly dropped out of his levitation. As he fell, he became the unfortunate victim of a radioactive fireball, straight to the face. He landed on the concrete porch, now a mass of cotton, smoke, and ashes.

Lyle stared at Damon's remains with intense googly-eyed awe. "_That_ was badass."

Peter grinned confidently. "What else you got?"

"What are you guys doing?" Claire asked, closing the back door behind her. Her eyes caught the half-scorched face of Damon the Polar Bear lying on the concrete. "Is _that_ my Damon Bear?!"

She looked at Peter, who had an absolutely horrified look on his face. "You said that was yours!" He yelled at Lyle.

"Right, like I would let you nuke my toys," he snorted. "Anyway, she has like a ton of bears."

"That was my very first one, idiot!" Claire yelled, punching Lyle in the arm several times, hard.

"Ow, ow, OWW!"

"You're such a little prick!"

"Hey, hey," said Peter, holding Claire back before she could tear Lyle apart. "Don't do it, Claire, not worth the trouble. I'm really sorry about Damon, even though certain _jerks_ had to be insensitive and not tell me about him." He glared at Lyle. "Why don't you go inside and help your parents with something?"

Lyle didn't even bother resisting. Rubbing his arm, he stormed inside, a sour look on his face.

"Damon was from England!" said Claire. "My uncle gave him to me, and now I'm never going to get him back! How could you tell me not to rip him apart?!"

"Sometimes siblings are the biggest assholes you will ever meet," Peter explained. "But sometimes you have to let it go."

"'Let it go?' Peter, he has been tormenting me for thirteen years-"

"—I meant, in exchange for another kind of revenge," he interrupted, with a grin. "Find his toothbrush, and brush it around in toilet water every morning. Don't tell him about it until like a month later."

She stared at him for a moment, and soon burst out laughing. "Something tells me you've done this to Nathan before."

"Hey, when you've eight and your older brother is a college student, you have to have creative kinds of retaliation. Make your circumstances work for you."

Claire laughed. "Making your circumstances work…I'll keep that in mind."

The back door opened again, and Mr. Bennet walked out, toting some dinner plates and utensils. "What's this I hear about a burned bear?" he asked.

"Dad, could you ground Lyle for like, twenty years?" she asked sighing and holding out Damon Bear's corpse. "He had Peter take out a hit on Damon Bear."

"I'm sorry, honey," he chuckled. "I'll have a talk with him after dinner. Meanwhile, if you could take these and set the table?"

Peter walked across the backyard a little ways, deciding to wait until Claire was inside before asking his question. "You know, uh, given that I'm leaving tomorrow…I wanted to ask you something," he started.

"Certainly, Peter," said Mr. Bennet, ever calm. "Right after this."

"What are-" he turned around, and mid-sentence his hand instinctively went up and shot out a mini-fireball at the dinner plate catapulting towards his head. One spectacular mini-explosion later, and the charred ceramic pieces had fallen to earth.

He and Bennet exchanged grins. "Not bad," Bennet told him casually.

"Jeez, you did that on purpose the other day, didn't you! Lobbing the thing at my head?"

"I don't know _what_ you're talking about."

"You're just like Claude, you know," Peter complained. "Except Claude's more up front about being a douchebag. Honestly, you guys' lessons are harsh."

"I might've borrowed a lesson plan or two," he answered simply, sweeping up the sizzling plate remains into a dustpan.

"Well, it works." After a hesitant moment, he decided to ask, "Why don't you do this more often?"

"Hm? Do what?"

"Well, help people like me. You know more about us than most guys, so why don't you?"

The corner of Bennet's mouth twitched, and his demeanor turned stoic instantly. "I think I explained something to you about 'familial responsibilities' the other day, Peter." The reply was formal, cold, and followed by a strategic sneer. "Isn't that why you're embarking on this fruitless quest of yours? To find your _dead_ brother?"

Peter _should've_ responded with an emotional defense of some kind. He used to be so easily damaged by put-downs and discouragement. But he had grown up considerably in the past year, and his confidence was on high after having Claire's support throughout the past week. He realized that this was just a little tactic of Bennet's to avoid the question.

"Sure it is," he said casually, feeling bullet-proof for once. "But I mean, well…there are more responsibilities in life than just those to your family. My dad always taught me that being able to do something to help others came with the responsibility of actually doing it. Like what you said about me going after Sylar, if I have to. I'm one of the few people with the capacity to stop him, so I have a responsibility to others to do so."

"Don't moralize, Peter, you don't have the gravitas."

"Hey, I'm not trying to-"

"—Yes, you are." He stood up now, glaring at him. "I took it upon myself to get the Company's satellite and resources destroyed, to persuade the Sanders' family to risk their _lives_ infiltrating the computer system, to make sure that the Company wouldn't bag-and-tag someone like you ever again. My responsibility ends _there_, Peter, I'm not helping you in your disillusioned mission to save the world and teach it to sing."

Peter stood silent for a few seconds, slightly disheartened. He would've expected the same kind of speech from Claude, but…well, he now realized just how much the world had changed in four months. "Sorry I asked," he said finally, knowing that it was the only thing he could say.

Bennet walked over to the garbage can, emptying the dustpan's contents. "Are we finished here?" He asked, sounding casual and almost conversational again.

"No, sorry…um..." It was a little awkward for Peter to ask, after _that_ talk. "…I did need a favor. I know you've done a lot for me, Noah, but you told me in New York that you had a tracking system?"

"'Had' is an appropriate term," said Bennet. "I don't know where she is anymore."

"She?"

"The tracking system is a little girl, Molly Walker. She has the ability to find people. The last time I checked, she was staying with Dr. Suresh."

"Do you know where he is?"

"We've sort of mutually agreed not to keep tabs on one another," he explained curtly. "We're not exactly friends. I do know he's not in New York anymore, though."

"Guess I've got some investigating to do," said Peter.

Bennet nodded. "Good luck to you, then." They shook hands, but there was a certain insincerity to it this time.

"I know you don't mean that," Peter said honestly. "You think Nathan's dead."

"Well, Claire doesn't, thanks to you," he told him. "So you're going to need all the luck you can get."

* * *

The next afternoon, when Nathan woke up again, he found that he could move. He still felt extremely ill, but he could make his arm lift off the bed and his fingers flex slowly. His feet could even swivel around by the ankles.

That was _way_ too speedy a recovery from a four-month coma.

He didn't receive any visitors, thankfully, save for a nurse, so he spent the rest of the day moving his extremities and working out which ones he could use. He also tried talking, once he found that he could groan loudly in response to the nurse's syringe prick. By the time Aster came in for another visit the following day, Nathan could've probably given him one of his stump speeches with some degree of enthusiasm.

"And how are we today?" Aster asked.

"I can move," said Nathan hoarsely. "And talk."

"Soon you'll be well on your way to becoming a real boy," he deadpanned.

"What are you people giving me? Some kind of experimental drug or something? _No one_ recovers from a coma this quickly. It's a miracle I'm even asking you this right now, I haven't spoken in four months."

"Blame it on your good health, Mr. Petrelli," he told him cheerfully.

"And what about my brother's?"

Aster understood and smiled knowingly, to Nathan's disgust. "Think he's bed-ridden as well, do you? There's no need to worry; his powers allowed him to heal after the explosion, and he has been looking for you ever since."

"I'm assuming you know this because you're having him followed. But why? What's the catch?"

"Well, that all depends on you," he answered, with all the bravado of a game-show host. "You see, you're a real live miracle, Nathan Petrelli. You should've died in that explosion, but instead you've qualified for a second chance at life."

Nathan snorted. "The lightning round."

"Yes indeed. But I'd like to know; what do you intend to do with that second chance, Mr. Petrelli? I know you haven't had much discretion with your first."

"I'm guessing _that_ all depends on you, John." No way in hell was he calling this kid 'Mister.'

"And why is that?"

"Well, your old man had something of a god-complex; I'm assuming that genetics have dominated in your case."

Aster grinned. "I'm honest enough to agree, although I'm going to be presenting you with a job offer, not a request for mass homicide."

"Technically it _was_ a job offer, the president's."

"Yes, but I can't aim that high this time. No one would elect a man who suddenly reappeared after dropping off the face of the earth for four months."

"That was _your_ fault," Nathan said angrily, annoyed with Aster's apparent 'charity.' The man was his father's son, all right. "You didn't have to hide my disappearance. I don't owe you any favors."

"But we didn't hide it," he said. "Not at first, at least."

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Look, just think about the alternatives for a second," Aster implored him, looking Nathan right in the eye. "If you recover and walk out of here, what are you going to do? Go back to your family? What are you going to tell Heidi? She's been bothered and harassed by the media for months, and you're suddenly going to show up at the front door with no explanation? And your mother, your staff, everyone you _know_ is going to have questions for you and your brother. Nothing is going to be the same, Mr. Petrelli. The world has changed. You don't even have a right to your seat in the House anymore; they barely elected your friend Josh Sutter to serve for you last week."

He withdrew, allowing the man to think over his words. "It doesn't matter how you got to this point, Nathan. I'm not trying to hold you here against your will, but right now there aren't many viable options to choose from."

Nathan knew the man was right, as much as he hated to admit it. No excuse could cover for his disappearance. Hell, even the _truth_ would be outrageous, and dangerous even if he _wanted_ to prove it. Not only that, but Peter would be held up to public scrutiny as well. By the time of the explosion, his brother had more or less forgiven him (he assumed) for lying to everyone about his flying hijinks. But would Peter be able to stand all of the questions and mistrust he would certainly receive after returning? Especially with that fib about his depression? His poor brother wouldn't be able to live a normal life ever again.

"So…" Nathan started, after a time. "What is this position you're so kindly offering me?"

Aster had a gentler tone this time, ready to cushion after the impact he had left with the truth. "I'd like you to help me rebuild this company. You would serve in an executive position, as adviser to me in all major affairs."

"That's it?" he said, almost willing to laugh at the proposal. "That's your offer? You tell me that I risk public crucifixion by going back to my family, and then you ask me to help you by serving as a _business partner_ in the Linderman Group? What kind of circular logic are you trying to pull on me, John?"

"I'm sorry, I probably should've clarified," said Aster. "I wasn't talking about _that_ company."


	7. Sabotage

_Thanks for the reviews, guys! It's helpful, believe me. Since everyone keeps asking, I probably should just say this up front right now; the Brothers Petrelli reunion isn't going to be for a while, sorry...Hey, wait, where you going? They (and everyone else) will be doing some cool stuff in the meantime! Come back!_

**7. Sabotage**

Claude Rains relocated back to Manhattan the previous month. He decided to do this while taking a holiday in Ireland and being forced to watch Irish football at every pub he snuck into, causing him to leave the damn drunkards with a broken tap as a going-away present, naturally. He only went back to New York because he impatiently reasoned that everyone who would have died from the nuclear fallout Peter Petrelli exploded all over the place had probably snuffed it already. Therefore, it was safe.

The first place he went was the Deveaux Building, because if the idiot had _really_ killed anyone in his attempt to save the world, it would've been his poor pigeons. Indeed, that seemed to be the case; none had flown back to him in the first few weeks he was there.

But today one came back. A pigeon named Pele. At least he thought it was Pele. He didn't tag the pigeons—he was disgusted with himself the minute the idea popped into his head—but he did keep an informal record of their spots and markings in his memory. This one _resembled_ Pele; there were the same spots and everything. But he was too young and small, and he was missing a white patch near his legs.

"Pele, Jr. it is, then," Claude declared. "He saw the end of the world coming, decided to spend the apocalypse with a tart in Ontario, and now here you are. Well then. Death begets life, eh?"

The pigeon cooed softly in his hands, and he stuck him in Pele's old cage. He took a handful of seed and was about to give him dinner when he heard footsteps, slow and distinct. A realtor visiting to look at the building, probably.

"An invisible man who spends his time talking to pigeons?" a man asked. "What a waste of talent."

Definitely _not_ a realtor.

Claude turned to find a dark-eyed young man watching Pele, Jr. feed from his invisible hand. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from the cage, leaving some spare seed to keep Pele occupied. Then he backed away with soft steps, increasing his pace as the man continued to look in his direction curiously.

"What's wrong? Did I insult you?" He stuck his right arm out, and a stick traveled easily from the floor to his hand.

He was telekinetic.

Instinct pulled Claude into a backward jump as the man swung the stick swiftly at him, and he ducked and sidestepped before he could get caught by the next hit. He threw birdseed into the man's face, and ran like hell past the cages, just though the greenhouse door-

-And he froze.

"There's no use staying invisible anymore, I've got a hold on you," the man announced, brushing birdseed off his clothes. "Show yourself."

It was a reasonable argument. Claude couldn't move a muscle, so escape was out of the question. He materialized, deciding to stall while he worked out a plan.

Claude felt himself being spun around in place and then shoved back roughly into brick, as the man telekinetically held him against the wall. He came closer, looking at Claude with a sneer. "You must know Peter Petrelli," he said.

"I must not," said Claude, unafraid. "I talk to pigeons, remember?"

"I think you do know him. He also has that magic trick of yours."

"What, talking to pigeons?"

His eyes narrowed. "Where is he?"

"He _exploded_, didn't you know? Guts and locks splattered all over the place. Perfectly lovely bloodbath, it was."

"You've got a smart mouth. Let's see if you've got a smart brain, too." He aimed his left finger at the wall next to him, and a line etched cleanly through the brick, about two inches deep. "I've still got it," he smiled to himself. "And now for you."

His finger pointed slightly to the right of his head, and Claude's eyes widened. His heart rammed furiously in his chest, but he still couldn't move a single limb. And he could see _exactly_ what was coming. Shit.

But suddenly in swooped the still ravenous Pele, Jr. right onto the man's head, pecking at some birdseed still nestled in his hair. Startled, the man swatted at Pele with both hands, accidentally releasing his grip on Claude. Now free, he sped into the greenhouse, dashed down the stairwell, and got the bloody fuck out of there.

He ran for about five blocks, running into any man, woman, or child who got into his way. Claude hated leaving his one loyal pigeon to possibly the most dangerous man alive, but he knew in his heart that Pele, Jr. did it for a valiant cause. His invisible hide.

Panting, Claude turned around, and seeing that the coast was clear, he made up his mind. He was going to have a talk with that idiot, Peter Petrelli.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to try some prego?" Lucy asked Mohinder, discourteously waving her grilled beef sandwich in front of his face as they journeyed the streets of Lisbon, Portugal. "It's really good. Or do you not like foreign foods?" 

"I like them just fine, I'm just full," he insisted, pushing her arm out of the way, so he could read his map.

"Are you still mad about the airport?"

"Which one?" Mohinder asked in exasperation. "I believe we had incidents at two airports."

"The LAX incident."

"Ah. Well Lucy, all I will say is that it's a very good thing they let you drink on flights."

"Do you know how to read Portuguese?" she asked out of nowhere, like she was an easily distracted child. She was Molly without sensibility, basically.

"No, Lucy, I still don't know how to read Portuguese."

"Well, this thing I stole from that woman's purse seems to talk about the University of Lisbon."

He looked at her. "Hold on, what woman?"

"That lady who just passed by, the one with all the junk spilling over the hemline of her shorts," Lucy said unconcernedly. "Ooh, that word means 'population'! I remember it from the airport. D'you think this'll help us find the University?"

"Can you read anything other than the word 'population'?"

"No."

"Then it's possible that you just made a useless steal."

Lucy frowned. "I never look at _any_ steal as useless. I view this steal as an opportunity to read more Portuguese literature. Do you know where we're going, by the way? Why don't we just take a cab to the university?"

"Because we're already here." They stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, Lucy barely noticing that they had been walking around the perimeter of the university for the past two minutes. She looked over at Mohinder, who grinned amusedly.

"How'd you do that? We barely left the hotel like fifteen minutes ago!"

"It's a little thing called internet hotel bookings," Mohinder replied, rolling his eyes. "Come on, the science department is on the west side of campus."

A little while later, they were in a science building, approaching the office of Dr. Jorge Vicente, an eminent researcher in the field of genetics. He was a friend of the late Dr. Suresh, and Mohinder had recently read an article the man had done on rare and unique human phenotypes. While reading, Mohinder kept having the distinct feeling that Dr. Vicente was holding back a great deal more than he was writing about, and decided to contact him.

"So does this guy work with people like me, too?" Lucy asked.

Mohinder nodded. "He does. But he only has two subjects, and coincidentally, one of them has Molly's illness. Dr. Vicente's been working on a permanent cure for a while now, and he told me over the phone that he's made a major breakthrough in the last few weeks."

"So did he agree to give it to you? The cure?"

"Well, I said he made a breakthrough," he answered, approaching the door. "That doesn't necessarily mean-"

Mohinder knocked and the door had opened wide, revealing two men hunched over a mess of papers on the desk, and a very dead Dr. Vicente, lying on the floor in a small pool of his own blood.

The men noticed Mohinder and Lucy, standing absolutely still and terrified in the doorway. One of them made a move, and so did Lucy, shoving Mohinder out of the doorway at a sprint and yelling at him to run.

He found himself barreling down the hallway, dashing downstairs after Lucy as the men behind them sprinted behind. At the foot of the stair, Lucy had found a janitor's cart. "Get in!" she yelled, knocking the water container and spilling its contents all over the floor. Having no objections, Mohinder obeyed.

"Hold on tight!" she yelled, grabbing onto the handles behind Mohinder. She pushed him down the hallway slowly at first, but within seconds everything around him had blended into a continuous blur, and he was clutching on to the sides for dear life. The cart crashed through something hard and there was light speeding at them now as they hurtled through the wind. It was a bumpy ride, but Mohinder barely had time to feel the bounces and jolts through the claustrophobia of speed all around him.

A minute later, Lucy started to slow down, and in another minute, they had come to a complete stop. Still terrified, and now panting and shaking, Mohinder tried to step off of the cart, finally half-falling onto the pavement in utter disorientation. Finally steadying himself, he got up, looking around.

They were just outside the market place, a good _two miles_ away from the university.

Incredulous, Mohinder let out a disbelieving laugh and looked over at Lucy. She was sitting on the ground, sweaty, out of breath, and barely able to reply to him, but she did smile contentedly.

"Who…was that…?" she gasped.

"I'm not sure exactly, but I have a strong hunch," he said pensively. "What's clear is that they really wanted to get their hands on whatever it is poor Dr. Vicente had found." He sighed. "Look, I really need to figure out what's going on. Obviously, this is probably going to be just as dangerous as what happened right now, if not more so. Are you still with me?"

"Who said I wasn't?"

Mohinder grinned thankfully. He shut his eyes for a few moments, inhaling deeply as he tried to compose himself again. Remembering his manners, he turned back to her. "Thank you so much, Lucy, you did very well. I think you're worth the trouble."

She managed a smirk. "So are you."

* * *

"Rodrigo!" Claire exclaimed as she opened the door. "What are you doing here?" 

"I found some time in my schedule," he grinned. "Thought I'd drop by and see _you_, Jodi, it's been a while. What you been up to?"

His visit was a pleasant surprise; it really had been some time since they'd last hung out, mostly due to Peter's week-long stay. It had only been two days since Peter had left, but she was already missing him dearly and had sort of taken to moping around the house ever since. Rodrigo didn't have to know _that_, though. "Oh, you know, been busy," she answered. "A family friend came to visit for a few days, so that's why I haven't been out much."

"Hah, recluse!" he laughed. Geez, she didn't even _tell _him about her moping around. She was slightly embarrassed, but tried not to make it apparent. "Looks like we'll need to rectify that, eh?" he asked.

"Jodi!" called her mother from the kitchen. "Who's that, hon?"

"It's Rodrigo, Mom!"

Mrs. Bennet (or Petersen), so fond of the extremely cute boy who always came to visit Claire, greeted him happily, and offered to get some cookies and lemonade ready for them. "I'll be in the kitchen, and you two can spend some time in the living room, where no one's going to bother you," she said perkily.

"I think your mom thinks she's a matchmaker or something," Rodrigo observed after she left.

"Ugh, I'm aware," said Claire, rolling her eyes. "She's a crazy woman."

"Who makes crazy cookies and crazy lemonade?"

"Made with crazy love," she laughed. "Hey, I thought you said on IM that you were finally going to catch up on your Trig homework today."

He shrugged. "I finished it like an hour ago."

"Oh my god, you nerd!"

"I am _not_ a nerd," he protested, to Claire's laughter. "_You're_ a goober."

"What?!" She exclaimed, her eyes glancing to the window momentarily. "You're the last person who should be calling me a goober, Rodrigo."

"Whatever. Only goobers put potato chips in their sandwiches. Who _does_ that?"

"Hey, hey, everyone has their quirks! Especially you."

Rodrigo laughed. "You don't know the extent of _my_ quirkiness, Jodi."

"I don't know, maybe I can relate," she replied wistfully. "I've seen some pretty weird stuff."

"Speaking of weird stuff," he began, dropping his mischievous air and looking her in the eye, "I hear you haven't been asked to the Spring Dance yet. Now _that's _pretty weird. I think it's off the wall."

Whenever he actually stopped and got serious, Rodrigo spoke with a very quiet, yet still playful, tone of voice. Claire always found it to be one of his more 'hottie' qualities. "You do, huh?" she asked shyly.

"Well, yeah. It's gonna be a big night, and it's only two weeks away. I have to confess though," he said with a grin. "I don't have a date yet either. Would you be _my_ date, and then I could be _yours_?"

He said this in the cheesiest way possible, forcing Claire to laugh. "And you didn't ask me earlier because…?"

"I mean, I thought I'd let you bat off all the other guys before I came over and wowed you with my charm," he said with adorable mock-confidence. "Also…I was scared shitless."

"_You_ were scared?"

He nodded. "Hey, I don't do this very often, okay? Gimme a break. Come on, Jodi, you still haven't answered. Will you go with me?"

Claire grinned, the widest she'd had since Peter left. "The Nerd and the Goober. I think we'll be the talk of the dance."

* * *

"I hope you're not treating this as a practice run, Matt, because you're not going to spoil our child this much," Janice was telling her husband, as she watched Molly devour her double-scoop ice cream cone (with sprinkles!) happily. They were walking around in the mall, enjoying one of the first laid-back Saturdays they'd had in a while. 

"You say that now, Jan, but in a year, we're gonna be king and queen of Sesame Street. Aw, come on, I'm kidding!" He said in response to her stern glare. "Right now it's okay to spoil Molly, I mean, she isn't even ours. It's perfectly fine."

"Is that right?"

"Kids have like an aunt-and-uncle loophole for spoiling. It's in fine print somewhere, I'm sure."

Molly laughed. "I bet I could find it!"

"Well…I know you've already found the toy store, Molly," said Janice, at last giving in to the adorable little girl's spell. "I can see you looking over there. Did you want to go?" she nodded excitedly. "…Okay, Matt, can you take her while I sit down for a bit? Matt?"

She realized that her husband had stopped walking, and was standing in the middle of all the mall shoppers passing by him. "Matt, what's-"

_Molly Walker…with Parkman…wait before…backup already at toy store-_

"We gotta go," he said suddenly, breaking into a brisk walk and grabbing both her and Molly by the wrists.

"Matt, what's gotten into-"

"Someone here is after Molly," he uttered under his breath, holding the little girl close with one arm. He let go of his wife and stuck his other hand in his pocket, making sure his gun was at the ready. "We have to leave, now."

"Where?" Janice asked, as she met Molly's scared eyes while they hurried through the crowds.

"Anywhere," breathed Matt, pulling out his phone. "Anywhere but here."

* * *

Nathan always thought of private thinking time as a valuable asset. It was certainly hard to come by in the political world; when you weren't brainstorming policy and image issues with your staff, you were out in front of the press, basically bullshitting half of what you said anyway. When he did take time to ponder, it was usually in his office, or even better, his father's at home. But as nice as Aster's facilities were, Nathan could find only one place suitable enough for contemplation time: an altitude of 250 feet in the air. 

He learned that he was staying in the headquarters of "Primatech Paper Company," just west of Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was anything but a corporation, of course; New Mexico was probably too happy to have a big "company" based in the state to care about what the hell was actually _on_ the premises. For example, he was presently mid-air, floating around on his back in the company's 30,000 square-foot underground "gymnasium" (hardly appropriate due to the lack of patrons and weight equipment). Below him were various props, dummies, and targets scattered on the white tile floor. These were intended for "training" and "refining abilities," as he was told.

It was strange how he'd picked his "thinking spot." As much as he despised using his ability, for the moment it was the only _real _and familiar aspect that had transferred from his old life. The only proof that he was still Nathan Petrelli. He had no one here with him right now, save for a recent inheritor trying to push him into an offer he wasn't quite sure he could accept.

Congress popped into his thoughts. It was a shame he couldn't serve. He'd known Josh Sutter a long time though; truthfully the man would probably make for a much more admirable public official, even if the guy lacked Nathan's notorious negotiation skills. For a while he pondered about the House. If none of these far-out events had ever happened—his and Peter's powers, the explosion plans—he would probably be sitting in the House of Representatives right now, getting to sponsor some school vouchers bill, or meeting foreign dignitaries to discuss trade policy, or sniping back at Tim Russert on Meet the Press…

But his election hadn't even been _certain_ in the first place. He had only won courtesy of a Linderman fix.

Nathan shook his head to himself, rolled over in midair, and decided to take a few laps around the gym ceiling. He needed some adrenaline. Idle dreaming wasn't his thing. It was Peter's.

He bolted from wall to wall and rounded the corners with ease, returning to his exact spot in something like 40 seconds. It was a lot like his days on the track team in high school. Except 100 times faster. Nathan cracked a determined grin as he embarked on his fifth lap. Flying, as inherently fun as you'd think it'd be, was for the first time actually a little bit thrilling for him.

Now focused, for this lap he concentrated on the situation at hand. After dropping off the face of the earth for four months, Nathan was alone and missing, and now had a company—an incredibly _dubious _company—asking him to help lead it through restoration and rebirth.

We're a match made in heaven, he thought to himself ironically.

But he knew that for once, he was actually going to get a chance to redeem himself, to _really_ help people like him, instead of turning them away in the street and having them shout things like "Birran!" to him and the press corps' ears.

Aster had detailed the job description thoroughly, and very specifically outlined the benefits. Nathan would mostly work in secret, of course, and people he'd meet within the organization would be sworn to secrecy on his presence. He didn't ask how Aster would elicit this secrecy, because he didn't want to know. The Company would provide all of his needs, amenities, and transportation for life, and it was at this point that Nathan started to revisit his Aster-as-Hell's-game-show-host theory.

But the _real_ clencher, the "but wait, there's more!" prize, was Nathan's family. Aster promised that in time ("less time than you'd think," Aster promised), once the media frenzy diminished, Nathan would be allowed to bring Heidi, Simon, and Monty into the fold, and that they could live together as a family again. Candice (an "illusionist," he was told) would help the Petrellis keep up normal public appearances to the rest of the world. Eventually, he could even recruit Peter to join in the Company's cause.

It was tough. Any choice he made regarding Heidi was going to be difficult, for one encompassing reason: he was the man responsible for all of her pains. Her wheelchair, her rift-inducing marriage, her four months of worried agony. There were so many if-I-had-just's that went through his head whenever he thought about her. How was he ever going to get her to stay with him on this one, even with the truth?

And then Peter. What was Peter doing? Looking for his big brother, refusing to return home without him. And while Nathan was sure he himself could get used to this arrangement in time, provided that his family did as well, Peter never would. He was never cut out for compromise, or organizational culture, or any kind of politics, as Nathan was. Peter's welfare was going to take a _lot _of thinking. And Nathan hadn't even gotten to what to do about his mother or Claire yet.

Nathan found himself dreaming again. He sorely wished he could fly faster in here. He wished that he could drown out this new world with the speed of sound.


	8. Mutual Enemies

**8. Mutual Enemies**

Peter hadn't been in New York for months. After he'd recovered, he'd scoured the harbor looking for any sign of Nathan, but with his powers out of control it wasn't as if he could conduct his search unnoticed, or safely. Now that he had some degree of focus, he could roam New York invisibly, and not worry about being seen by anyone.

It was evening now, and he was in Kirby Plaza, watching pedestrians walk by. It was a little cathartic, being back home, sitting outside and just people watching, like he used to do during lunch breaks back when he was working. He'd always observe people, what they did, who they were talking to, and kind of try to figure out how they were doing. There wasn't any actual interaction, but Peter just enjoyed the observation. He decided he'd just do this and rest a while before setting off to look into Professor Suresh's whereabouts once again.

Presently he was watching a family sitting at a table, where two little boys were hunched over, reading a comic book together. They kept pointing out favorite panels to each other and talking animatedly; it made Peter smile and made him miss childhood. Specifically, it brought to mind the memory of Nathan smacking him repeatedly in the back of the head with a rolled up issue of X-Men once he'd discovered Peter's little toothbrush prank.

Peter half wanted to come over and ask the kids what they were reading. Apparently someone else had the same idea, because the boys looked over at the man who had just called at them.

It was a happy, bespectacled Japanese man, toting a samurai sword on his back.

He didn't even have to look twice. Jumping up immediately, Peter sprinted over, dropping his invisibility. "Hiro!" he yelled excitedly. "Over here, Hiro!!"

Hiro's jaw dropped. "Peter Petrelli!" he shouted, running away from the two boys.

Peter came over, giving Hiro a welcoming hug. It was the first time he had ever done so, but he honestly couldn't think of a better way to say hello. Hiro returned the sentiment, shouting, "You're alive! You're alive!"

"So are you!" said Peter, withdrawing with a happy grin. "Hiro, where've you been? Where'd you go?"

"Japan, 1671!" Hiro answered. "I came back a few days ago, and I started looking for you, Peter Petrelli. Where did _you_ go? And where is Flying Man?"

It took a moment for him to figure out whom Hiro was talking about. "Wait, Nathan? I've been looking for him for months, I dunno where he is. Are you looking for him too?"

"Yes!" Hiro exclaimed, and it looked like he was going to give him a salute. "It is my mission, to find you and Nathan Petrelli! So I must follow you in your search!"

Peter was totally floored. Within days of arriving back in New York he now had an ally, someone just as committed to finding his brother as he was. "We'll look for him together, Hiro," he said determinedly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "We'll find Nathan, don't worry."

"Screw Nathan," came a voice from behind Peter. Hiro saw him twist around, and suddenly, he vanished, like a ghost.

"Uh…Peter Petrelli?" he said, now extremely confused. "Peter Petrelli?"

Peter, meanwhile, was being held up by the collar, looking into the irate eyes of the invisible man himself. "Claude?"

"Well, give the man a medal!" he exclaimed dryly. "You and I need to talk, Petrelli."

"Peter Petrelli…?" Hiro continued to repeat, certain he had heard Peter's voice but unable to locate the rest of him. "Peter-"

"—Look, you mind dropping the lost sheep impression for a bit?" Claude asked, although he wasn't courteous enough to rematerialize while asking. "We're having a conversation here."

"But who-"

Growing impatient by the second, Claude barked out something in Japanese to Hiro, who quickly silenced himself and looked down at the ground, standing absolutely still.

"Hold on, you speak Japanese?" Peter asked.

"Oh, my deep dark secret revealed," said Claude sardonically. "You used to change old guys' bedpans, it wasn't as if you went around advertising. But that's beside the point. Look, I almost got killed the other day 'cause of you, and I'd like to know why."

"_What_? Claude, I haven't seen you since you _ditched_ me, why would I try to kill-"

"—I said 'because of you,' not, 'because you tried to bore me to death with another lecture on love and the earth and centrifugal motion.' Now tell me, why the hell did a man try to gut my head and happen to mention _you _whilst doing so, eh?"

Peter's eyes widened. "That…that was Sylar!"

Hiro too, looked alarmed at Peter's mention of the name. "Sylar…?"

"What, lanky bloke, bushy brows, unbelievable propensity to talk like a droning cult leader?" Claude asked.

"He's been killing people like us," Peter explained, still unable to believe that Sylar had almost taken Claude's brain. "He's the telekinetic guy I told you about…and he's kind of like me," he said reluctantly, "only he has to cut open your head to get your ability."

Claude squinted at Peter, actually stunned. Realizing that he was still holding the kid threateningly, he let go of his collar. "So he's a murderer," he mused. "A super-powered Jack the Ripper…hmm, can't say he's very original. Why didn't you kill him then?" But before Peter could answer, he added, "Or were you too busy _exploding_?" The last word was spoken with a great deal of bitter derision.

Peter couldn't control himself this time. He was about to counter with an enraged defense, but Hiro piped in loudly, answering Claude's first question instead. "But I did kill him!" Hiro insisted, and the apparent futility of his efforts was starting to drive him mad. "I stabbed him through the heart," he grabbed his sheathed sword and made a swift jabbing motion, "Yatta!! You see? I saw him die!! He cannot be alive!"

Now the Englishman stared openly at the excitable Japanese guy, finding himself wondering _where_ exactly Peter had met up with this character. But he realized that the situation probably looked even stranger to on-lookers, because he and Peter were still very much invisible, while the Japanese guy wasn't, and was still yelling at them and miming with his sword as if they were. "Look, I think we ought to go talk somewhere private about this," he suggested.

"Why?" asked Hiro.

"This information's sensitive," Claude explained, putting his hand on Hiro's shoulder and getting the distinct feeling that he wasn't going to enjoy hanging out with these two.

* * *

Mr. Bennet was on the phone, glasses off as he rubbed his eyes. He was _not_ supposed to be having this conversation again, and he should _never _have had the first one at all. 

There was a reason they didn't move to Ohio right after the explosion. Destroying the Company was an extensive and arduous undertaking, and it didn't stop with simply disarming the organization of its tracking systems. And because _that_ task had resulted in casualties—Hana, Ted, and very nearly Matt—he'd made sure that the Company itself would be completely cut off from its lifeblood, its two essential components: information and finances. This being the twentieth century, the task was easily accomplished with the help of Micah Sanders once they found a way to access the Company's intranet system and accounts. When all was said and done, Bennet then covered tracks, and ensured that there would be no reprisal on his family, the Parkmans, or the Sanderses.

Yet now, _now _it looked as if it had been inevitable all along.

He was about as pissed at himself as the man on the other line was. "I understand your situation, DL," he insisted, "and I completely sympathize, but for now, this is the best I can do-"

"—I could've figured that we had to skip town without _your_ help," DL said angrily. "I just need you to tell me where I can keep Micah completely safe while I find the bastards who kidnapped my wife."

"I'm telling you, you can't do that, the Company will kill you."

"And what about Niki?" he yelled. "I'm supposed to run away while they kill her too? As a matter of fact, how do we even _know_ that it's the same people?"

"You said it yourself, taser guns and a nighttime kidnapping. It's standard operating procedure; they did it just to let us know that it's them."

DL was silent for a few moments as he soaked this revelation in. "So if Linderman's people are still alive, then I guess _you_ screwed up, Bennet."

He sighed, looking at the ground resignedly. "I did. And I _will_ do something about your wife, you have my word on that. But it's vital that you do _not_ take action right now. We don't know how strong they are yet, or how re-established everything is."

Silence answered him. "DL?"

"Fine." he heard at last. "So for now Micah and I are just gonna go to that cop in Los Angeles?"

"Yes. Take the back roads, get a new car somewhere along the way, and find another cell phone. I spoke to Parkman earlier; he's in the same situation you're in right now, so call me back in two hours and I'll give you his location then." Bennet paused, trying to make sure he had given him all the necessary instructions. "You got a gun?"

"You know I'm not taking any chances," he answered shortly.

"Good. I'll call you if something comes up, otherwise, do not divert from the plan." He hung up and quickly strode over to his office, his mind already running through details and formulating a counterstrategy. It _had_ to be a counterstrategy; if the Company had found and gone after both the Parkman and Sanders clans in the same day, then someone was sure as hell already in the process of striking his household as well.

Something caught his eye once he got to the office. One of the drawers in the filing cabinet was about a centimeter ajar. He looked inside, but nothing was out of place. While considering the peculiar clue—as insignificant as it might've looked, it _was_ a clue, nonetheless—he happened to glance out the window into the backyard. Comprehension struck him immediately.

Soon he had opened another drawer, and started to prepare a taser gun.

* * *

Matt wasn't supposed to be here, back at his home. He was supposed to be driving Janice and Molly out of town, making a clean getaway from the Company. But Molly was starting to get sick, and right now, the only place they could get more of Mohinder's antibodies was back at the house. 

Bennet would've called him an idiot, for not planning ahead. And it was just plain stupidity to be back here at all, especially since his only backup—Audrey—hadn't picked up the five times he called her in the past hour. But given all this, Matt couldn't turn back now. Molly's old words, like a mantra from a dream, echoed too much in his ears for him to even consider doing so.

"Don't die, Officer Parkman, you're my hero."

_I don't want to die, but I'd be a pretty awful hero if I didn't do this, Molly,_ Matt thought to himself as he approached his house, mere yards away now. In his hand he clutched a gardener's hand shovel; it was the best weapon he could find after leaving his gun with his wife in the mini-van, for protection. Scanning the neighborhood, he noticed that all of the cars parked on the street or in driveways belonged to his neighbors. Still, he didn't expect Company people to make it that obvious.

He decided to enter through the back, carefully opening the back gate and hiding behind one wall of his house, positioning himself so he could see anyone exiting the back porch. Two different voices caught in his mind, those of two men. That meant there were two people in the house. They were talking to each other right when he perceived them, but they decided to split up after a few moments. The one still downstairs, the one with a deeper voice, was surveying the living room, the room he was standing right next to.

Inhaling deeply, Matt tried to clear his anxiety. His nerves were shot, but he had to think. Mohinder's cooler was upstairs; it was no use running up there and trying to lug the whole thing down. But there was a pack of antibodies sitting in the refrigerator, enough to last for three days, _maybe_ a little longer. It would have to do for now.

There were two back doors, one near by the living room and one in the kitchen, but the latter was on the other side of the yard. Getting there without being seen from the living room window was impossible, so Matt had to rely on the thoughts he caught.

—_The guy wouldn't be dumb enough to come back home. I swear, if Candice puts us on another dumb errand ever again, I'm sticking it to that bitch…_

Matt snorted. These two were lower-level flunkies, he was guessing, and they hadn't even expected him to come back. So that meant they were off-guard, right? He listened awhile longer.

_Who paints their walls taupe, anyway? The Motel 6 has taupe walls, why would you want…in…own home…_

The head voice drifted away as Matt hurried across the yard, ducking behind the lower wall of his porch. The kitchen door was only a few feet away now…

…_Wonder if there's anything in the fridge…_

"Dammit," Matt cursed. The guy was coming his way, and would see him once he was close enough to the big windows in the breakfast nook. He needed a diversion…he seized the closest thing he could find, a garden rock, and hurled it across the hard. It hit some chimes that hung in the trees, creating a loud enough clatter to attract the intruder's attention. Matt could hear the thoughts fading away; the guy had returned to the living room, heading for the back door.

This was his chance. He ran up to the kitchen door, opened it slowly, and crept in. Hurrying up to the fridge, he grabbed a portable cooler, put the antibodies in, shoveled ice over the packet-

Click.

"Officer Parkman, I presume?" came the voice from behind.

Dammit. Why did they always do that?

"Don't think we know to handle ourselves around telepaths?" asked the man pushing his gun into Matt's neck. "You're dumber than I thought, Parkman."

"I'm aware," Matt sighed.

"Still…_taupe_ walls? Heh. Well, you know the drill, hands up, turn around."

He obeyed, the mini-cooler still held in left hand. Matt saw the man face to face now; he was a tall, stout young guy with fair hair and a triumphant gaze. The man snatched the hand shovel from his right hand, tossing it to the counter with a laugh. "What is this, a garden tool? What were you gonna do, _weed_ us out of-"

Suddenly, the phone rang, and Matt seized the opportunity to lunge at the guy, striking his arm upward into the air. Then he head butted him, because it was the first thing that came to mind and he lacked any real combat strategy. Luckily, it wasn't such a bad tactic once Matt actually executed it, because it sent the guy falling, and he landed on the floor in a dizzy stupor.

"Noel?" came the partner's voice from upstairs. "What's going on down there?"

His head was killing him, but Matt wasted no time. He took the gun away from his dazed assailant—Noel, apparently—and scrambled towards the door with the cooler. Glancing quickly at the still ringing phone, he couldn't help but grin at the caller ID. It was Audrey Hansen's number, thank god.

In a few seconds he was tearing down the street, and soon his mini-van came into view, Janice and Molly safe and waiting inside. Matt knew that he'd been _incredibly _stupid, but at the same time he was also incredibly lucky. For his family's sake, he knew he'd have to work on smarter ways of staying safe, but still, there was something to be said for knowing FBI agents with a magnificent sense of timing.

* * *

It was a little late in the evening, but Claire was too content to care as she sat out in the backyard with Rodrigo, sipping lemonade and listening to his usually strange observations. 

"So you're saying that you've never seen the original Power Rangers," Rodrigo said disbelievingly.

"No, I haven't! What's the big deal?"

Rodrigo shook his head. "Jodi Petersen, I'm sorry to tell you this, but you've been diagnosed with a deprived childhood. You have all the symptoms: bad memory of awesome Megazord fights, inability to perform the Morphin' Time sequence, overall lameness…What?" He received a glare for reciting that last symptom. The back door opened just then, and Mr. Bennet came out, walking towards them. "Oh, heya, Mr. P." He greeted. "Me and Jodi were just talking—EURGHH!"

The poor boy didn't even have time to react before Claire's father pulled out the taser gun from behind and shot it right at Rodrigo's neck with rapid accuracy.

"Rodrigo!" Claire yelled, getting up, but her father halted her with his free arm. "_Dad_! What are you-"

"Who have you been talking to?" Bennet asked the writhing boy, with a manner conveying nothing less of cold professionalism. "Who sent you here?"

"Dad, this is Rodrigo!" Claire pleaded, in absolute disbelief that her nightmares had come true, and that her dad was actually _interrogating_ her would-be boyfriend. "He's my _friend_, I told you about him!"

"Claire," he looked her in the eye, very much aware that he was using her real name in front of the boy, "I'm sorry to tell you this, but this friend of yours has been spying on us."

"That isn't possible!" she yelled openly at him, furious. "He asked me to the Spring Dance yesterday! Dad I can't believe you, you're…you're being paranoid!"

He focused on Rodrigo now, trying not to allow Claire to distract his questioning. "That was a very convenient method of getting into the house, asking my daughter to a dance. But I think you're going to want to tell me who sent you here, right now."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" Rodrigo shouted from the ground. "You're mistaking me for—GAHH!" The taser went off again, and the teenager thrashed around in pain.

"I need a name, not the standard alibi they gave you."

Claire couldn't take much more of this. "Dad, _stop_!" she yelled, reaching for the gun, but he was still strong enough to hold her off. "You're hurting him!"

"Honey, because of this boy-"

"Rodrigo has done _nothing_! Give me the-"

"—It was Candice!" Rodrigo finally screamed, the pain causing tears to well in his eyes. "Her name's Candice! No last name, that's all she gave me, okay?!"

Claire blinked for a few silent seconds, unable to breathe.

Something tightened in her chest, like everything inside spontaneously twisted and knotted itself into a taut, aching mess right when she heard those words. It was familiar too, and just as abrupt in coming as the last time her world unexpectedly collapsed into itself.

She stood motionless as her father sighed, releasing the trigger and dropping the taser gun to his side, the prods detaching from Rodrigo's neck. "That's all she needed to give you," he told the boy. He looked over at his unmoving daughter, deeply apologetic but unable to express more empathy under the present circumstances.

"So I was right," he said, turning back to Rodrigo, "the Company is back in business. But how did Candice find you? And why did she recruit you to spy on us?"

"She came up to me after school one day, and said she knew about _me,_ and my sister and mother too!" he cried, panting heavily. "She told me that if we wanted to, to…to keep the family together, I'd have to work for them! Look, I didn't want to _do _this, okay, but I had no choice!"

"Wait," Claire said suddenly, but still quiet, "what do you mean, they knew about you?"

"I'm special." He looked into her hurt eyes, and added, "Just like you, Claire Bennet."

She would've yelled something hateful at Rodrigo, but the porch lights suddenly flickered off, as well as those in the house and the surrounding homes. They stood in near-complete darkness now. "What-what's going on?" she managed to ask.

"They're here," said Bennet, hushed and serious, "it's a blackout tactic, they've cut off the power. Okay…Claire, honey," he knelt down and faced her in the moonlight. "I know all of this is a _lot_ to process right now, and I'm very very sorry, but I'm going to need you to focus and follow my instructions. Go inside, have Mom and Lyle help you barricade all of the doors, and get the emergency kit from my office. And call Peter, right away. Can you do that?"

Claire nodded, making a visible effort to control the inner turmoil of emotions inside. Bennet saw her take one last hateful glance at the boy on the ground.

"As for this little bastard," he continued, snatching Rodrigo up by the collar, "apparently you're not going to give up what it is that made the Company interested enough to recruit you, but I'm not allowing them to keep it any longer. You're coming with us."

* * *

"It ain't a cozy café," Claude commented, surveying the dingy alley he'd picked for them to chat. "But it's private. Save for the rats, of course. And drunks. And the occasional dead body, but you get used to the smell once-" 

"—So you say Sylar is alive?!" asked Hiro, apparently impervious to any form of dry humor.

"You know, I don't even know your name, much less why you're hanging out with Fido here," he pointed out, nodding towards Peter.

Peter rolled his eyes, but he quickly took up the formalities. "Hiro, this is Claude, he can turn invisible. Claude, this is my friend Hiro. He can bend time and space."

Claude stared. "…Say what?"

"I travel through time, and I can freeze it and teleport from place to place," Hiro explained, although his impatience hampered his usual enthusiasm. "What about Sylar?"

Unfortunately, his explanation met with growing skepticism. "Hold on," he said, openly staring, "you're trying to tell me that you can pop up _anywhere_ in time?" Hiro nodded. "So you can go visit Charles Dickens, then? Or go and watch the end or the world?"

"Yes, I can," answered Hiro, who was actually starting to get irritated. Claude laughed, further prompting Hiro's growing dislike.

"Listen," said Claude, "I've seen some very fine abilities in my time, even one or two…well, _ungodly_ ones…but _that _has got to be absolute bunk."

"I don't care if you think I am a liar!" Hiro yelled. "Please, you must tell me, where is Sylar?!"

"Sorry, but I don't know. The man tried to kill me, I wasn't about to-" Peter's phone rang, interrupting Claude mid-sentence. "…Why are you carrying a cell phone? Aren't you supposed to be dead to the world? Who the hell's calling_ you_?"

"Family," Peter said absently, recognizing Claire's number on the ID. "Hello? …Whoa, slow down, slow down. What's going on?" Claire was frantic and breathless, but she was able to tell him about the Company and its current invasion of her household. Claude and Hiro watched Peter's expression morph into an almost equal trepidation, although he put some effort into sounding calm and resolute in his response to the distress call.

"Okay, okay, just stay calm!" He told her. "Just gimme a few minutes…Hold on till then, okay?" He hung up. "Hiro, I need you to teleport me to Dayton, Ohio," he instructed.

Hiro gave him a blank stare, while Claude had just about given up on contesting all the bullshit he'd heard from these two. "Um, where…?" asked Hiro, feeling a little befuddled with the odd change in conversation topic.

"Dayton, Ohio," said Peter, pulling out a used visitor's pamphlet and city map from his jacket. "Ohio's like three states over, and Dayton's right here." He pointed out the city on the map. "Can you teleport that far?"

"You're really serious, then?" Claude interjected. "You talk as if Ohio's the burrough up the street. Does that mean this man really _can_ teleport?"

"Only one way for you to be sure, am I right?" Peter asked him. "Hiro, can you do it?"

Hiro nodded. As badly as he wanted to go after Sylar, he _had_ told Peter that he would follow him anywhere, and his honor prevented him from doing otherwise. "Yes, I have teleported to Japan before," he explained. "However, I may not get us to the right house on the first try."

"Just as long as we get there quick," he said, putting a hand on Hiro's shoulder. Claude, you coming?"

Claude _should've_ gotten Peter into another argument. He should've taken more potshots about losing to Sylar, stressed all that responsibility-to-the-world bunk, made the two young men mad enough at themselves to ignore the distress call and take care of business that Claude actually gave a shit about. But honestly…_teleportation and_ _time travel?_ It was absolutely ludicrous, but it was also too good to miss. Anyway, the two of them had hyped it too much to be lying…at least, that's what he'd read from the scene.

He grabbed Hiro's arm, shaking his head all the while. "Ah, what the hell. Even if you two _are_ delusional, there are worse ways I could spend my day, right?"

Hiro stared dumbly for a second, as if he was trying to answer the question. "Well, what're you waiting for?" He asked Hiro. "Are you gonna make with the time-bending or what?"


	9. Ohioan Standoff, part one

_Not to ignore the other storylines, but the next two chapters shall take place in the Buckeye state, because that's where the action's at, baby. There will be a catch-up chappie later on, though._

**9. Ohioan Standoff, part one**

When you're facing a brick wall in an alley one second and then blink to find yourself in an open, green, pollution-less Ohio city park, you're pretty much inclined towards exuberant and astounded yelling, no matter what time of day it is.

"That was bloody fan_tas_tic!" Claude shouted, after about half a minute of speechless wonder. He gave Hiro an admiring look. "I mean, good God, actually _teleportin'_ your bloomin' atoms clean across 600 _miles_…and that wasn't _even _teleportin' them across 600 years! You truly are someone _special_, friend, and I mean that." He added another commendation in Japanese, and Hiro grinned slightly, starting to warm up to the strange Englishman's charm.

Peter—you know, the empath who could probably do what Hiro did with some practice—gave Claude an annoyed shove in the shoulder. "For an invisible man, you sure don't know how to keep your voice down," he whispered irritably, pulling out his map and walking out under some park lights. "Could you shut up for a sec while I figure out where the hell we are?"

Claude shrugged, continuing to converse enthusiastically with Hiro in Japanese.

"So who in your family is in trouble, Peter?" Hiro asked, after a while.

"Yeah," Claude added, "and who in the Petrelli clan hails from the Midwest, anyway?"

"It's…" Peter paused momentarily, suddenly realizing that if he mentioned Claire and her last name, Claude would react badly and, well, might just abandon them. Peter wasn't the brightest at drawing conclusions, but he could pick out potentially volatile situations when he saw them.

"It's my niece Jodi, she's Nathan's long lost daughter," he covered, and Claude even leered at the 'long lost daughter' bit. It worked, obviously, but he knew it was going to be a hell of a shitty lie in the end.

"Who's after them, then?" Claude asked. Now with _this_, Peter couldn't lie fast enough. Claude understood his fumbling silence immediately. "The Company," he confirmed, looking solemn. "Still at it, of course."

"Sorry," said Hiro, "But what is the Company?"

"A bit like Sylar, but populous, methodical, and far tidier about terrorizing people like us," he explained. "Dealing with that organization is _not_ a pleasant experience."

Peter looked at Claude, cautious. "…You're not going to run out on me again because of them, are you?"

He laughed humorlessly. "Where am I supposed to run? I'm not exactly familiar with Ohio, and moreover, I have standing business with you two regarding Sylar. I think I have to stick around for the time being, I'm afraid, seeing as how you insist on paying grossly undue attention to your distractions."

"Don't you dare bring up that 'distractions' crap again," said Peter, ignoring the smirk Claude gave him and instead examining the map again. "Oh wait, I know where we are! We're only about five miles west of their neighborhood, on this street right here. Can you hone in on this, Hiro?"

Hiro glanced at the map, and nodded. "Piece of cake!" he exclaimed, grabbing both men and squinting.

* * *

"Electric company!" said the voice from the door. "Anyone home?" 

"Go downstairs and check on everyone," Claire's father instructed, watching the door as he quietly screwed a silencer onto his gun. "And try calling Peter again."

"Don't you have any more guns in the house?" she asked, receiving the kind of 'are you out of your _mind_?' look any parent would give to that question. "Dad, come on, you can't hold off these people by yourself!" she argued. "We don't even know how many are outside!"

The caller at the door piped up again. "The neighborhood's had a power outage tonight! We're going around the neighborhood, making sure no one's hurt!" The voice dropped. "We know you're _home_, the cars are parked out here." The man's voice picked up the concern again. "Is everyone alright?"

Bennet's jaw clenched as he continued to listen. "There's a glock in the kitchen, stuck under the sink," he said at last. "And the taser's still downstairs, give it to your mother."

Claire crept quietly through the living room, and although all the blinds were drawn, she ducked behind couches and furniture anyway as she made her way to the kitchen. She opened the cabinet beneath the sink, retrieved the weapon, and snuck back over to the basement door, her father remaining completely still as she passed him.

"Why do _you_ get to have a gun?" Lyle whined, when Claire entered. "Mom-"

"—Lyle, don't even think about asking if you can use a pistol," his mother told him, fingers at her temples as Mr. Muggles jumped out of her lap. "You know, Claire, your dad's doing a good job defeating the purpose of our parent lectures."

"I asked for it, if that makes it any better," said Claire, putting the gun down on a table and sitting down next to her. She looked over at where Lyle was staring, at a pair of legs lying behind some boxes. "How is he?" She asked quietly.

"Still asleep. But I think your brother's having a fun time playing guard over there." She pulled her daughter into a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry about Rodrigo, Claire."

Claire watched Mr. Muggles trot around in between her and her mother's feet. "At least he wasn't another Brody. Still…wish I could've seen it coming."

Mrs. Bennet sighed. "Honey, there are a _lot_ of things you can't see coming. The best we can do is roll with the punches once they hit, and just hope for the best."

She nodded with hesitant acknowledgment. "I'm going to call Peter and check up on where he is." She pulled out her phone. "Peter?"

"Heya Claire, how's it going?"

"Well, we're sort of hiding in the basement from gun-toting intruders right now, so in other words, not much."

Peter snorted. "Hey, don't worry, we're about two blocks away, we'll be there soon. We don't see a soul outside, though."

"Wait, you brought people along?"

"Ah, you know, just some friends I ran into once I got back to New York. We're invisible though, don't worry. Where…family…now…"

Claire plugged her other ear with her free hand. "Peter, you're breaking up, what did you say? ...Peter?" She looked at her mom. "That's weird, the call dropped."

* * *

"You get any bars out here?" Peter asked, catching up with his two companions. "The line just went dead." 

"Seeing as how I'm an invisible misanthropic homeless man, I'm guessing you meant to ask Hiro that," said Claude, continuing to walk off into the dark street. "And since he probably doesn't possess one of those newfangled phones that gets reception in 17th century Japan, I think your question's going to go unanswered."

Hiro at least tried to be remotely helpful. "I think your phone is being sabotaged, Peter. They could be …" he struggled to find the translation. "I think, _jamming_ it, or stopping the reception."

"Then they know we're here," he concluded, as they stopped on the corner. "Alright, this is the street."

"Someone is at the door!" Hiro exclaimed, squinting in the darkness. "Two people!"

"There's probably more 'round the back," Claude observed. "It's a family of…what, four? Five? In such situations, the Company usually deploys another two-man team. I don't think either one has gotten in yet." He took his hand off Hiro's shoulder and walked out into the street. "Right then, I'll take the front team, you two can teleport to the backyard and dispatch the other team."

Peter lunged over to grab Hiro, before he could come back into plain sight under the open moonlight. "Claude, what the hell?" Peter whispered, furious. "That's not a plan! And how are you going to handle two people by yourself?"

Claude turned around, rolling his eyes in exasperation. From behind, he reached into his long overcoat and pulled out a broad, magnificent, stainless steel machete. "Don't get your panties in a wad, Mum, I've got protection. I'll not be impregnating anyone tonight."

The Brit certainly earned the dumbfounded stares this time. "Where…where did you get a machete?" Peter asked.

"Chinatown, of course," he explained, brandishing the blade so that the moonlight dazzled off brilliantly. "What, you think I was gonna run around New York defenseless when a guy's fixin' to hack the top of my skull off? Besides, I've dealt with these people before. I've got this taken care of." Claude trotted off back towards the house. "Anyway, don't teleport directly inside, you might startle them! Just stick to the plan, and holler if you get into any trouble!"

"Dammit," Peter cursed, as Claude ran off to stalk behind a neighbor's hedge. "He's still such a jackass."

"He is a very strange man," Hiro noted, "but I think he can take care of himself."

"Yeah, but so can we!" he said indignantly. "I seriously think he's trying to stick it to us." He sighed. "Alright then, I think we need to teleport just outside the backyard first, so we can check things out…"

"Ohh!!" Hiro suddenly yelled, a bright orange flare reflecting in his glasses. Peter spun around.

There was a mushroom cloud hanging over the park.

It wasn't enormous, like the explosion Peter had created miles above New York. Though only extending about thirty feet into the sky, the blast still lit up the night, receding after a few moments of orange-yellow illumination.

"It looks like…like another nuclear explosion," said Peter, looking over at his gape-mouthed friend.

"Is it Sylar?" Hiro asked, anxiety returning to his eyes. Peter shook his head uncertainly. "If it is, then we must go to him," he said resolutely.

"No!" Peter said immediately, actually surprised at the notion. "What about Claire's family? And Claude?"

"Claire?" Hiro repeated.

"My niece," Peter corrected himself, unconcerned. "Look, I don't think we…" He didn't finish, because suddenly he was torn.

Sylar needed to be dealt with, but he wasn't sure how to go about it. Should he go to the Bennets' and let Hiro handle Sylar himself? Hiro _did_ manage to impale the guy back at Kirby. Still, Peter felt less than comfortable allowing him to do this alone. He didn't know how skilled Sylar was now, or if he had taken any more abilities during the last four months. At any rate, Hiro was the one guy who could get everyone out from the house safely.

But that meant Peter would have to go hold off Sylar, and he viewed that option with reluctance. He promised Claire that he'd be there and he didn't want to send proxies to fulfill that promise; it was wrong after all Claire's family had done for him. Then there was that stupid lie he'd told Claude, and what he and Noah would do to each other because of it, and whether or not that would jeopardize everyone's safety even more-

"Peter, I cannot wait any longer," said Hiro. "I'm going to go after him!"

"Can I get you to go to the house first while I get Sylar?" Peter blurted out quickly, making his mind up on the spot.

His friend looked as if he were on the brink of being mutinous. "What?! No! Peter, I must stay with you!" He got closer, absolutely unwavering. "I must make sure Sylar _dies_ this time!"

"And you _will_, okay?" Peter insisted, trying to calm the man down. Hiro was going to need convincing for this plan, and it was difficult when you were barely convinced yourself. "Remember, I'm nuclear too, just like Sylar. I'll go over there and hold him off for right now, but I'm gonna need you to go help Claude and teleport everyone out."

He didn't answer at first, prompting Peter to grab him by the shoulders. "Hiro, please! Just please do this for me, and once everyone's safe you can meet me back at the park," he paused for emphasis, "so we can _finish_ the son of a bitch together."

Hiro didn't acknowledge the suggestion at first, turning to stare angrily at the fading flash in the distance. Finally, he nodded, noticeably disappointed but still resolute. "Okay. Because you asked. I will see you in a few minutes, Peter."

He bowed respectfully, and Peter bowed back. "Thanks, Hiro. I'll save you a good fight, I promise." Extending his hands upward, Peter torpedoed himself into the night sky, mentally preparing for his last battle with Sylar.

But not before a lone thought crossed his mind. _I'm sorry, Claire._

* * *

Claude hadn't seen the explosion. He was too preoccupied with the conversation he was eavesdropping on. At the front door was a tall man, who was called Nelson by the woman who was currently stepping up on his cupped hands and looking through the door's window. Her name was Miller, and she was giving Nelson some rather extensive detail on what she was seeing in the pitch black house. 

_Night vision,_ Claude observed. _Not the most brilliant ability, but it saves money on equipment._

"Nothing is moving, so Mack and Liam aren't in yet," she told her partner, stepping down. "I don't know what's taking so long, but if they did get in through another way, they might've run into some trouble. I think we should just break in."

A lock-picking kit was taken out, and Claude watched the two work on the door with some interest. Unfortunately, this interest ran out after about a minute, long after the two _should _have broken into the damn house. He would've been disappointed with the caliber of the Company's new hires; however, he was more impatient with the fact that this rescue mission was going to be vastly less exciting than he thought it would be.

"Ugh, I can't get the stupid thing to open," Nelson muttered.

"Try tilting the tension wrench upward," Claude suggested.

The two froze, and while Miller managed to pull her gun out, Claude beat both of them to the punch, knocking them out cold with the flat side of his machete. He picked up the rake and tension wrench from Nelson's hands.

"Jesus, must I do everything?" he asked the unconscious forms. Inserting the tools in, he had the door ajar in an easy thirty seconds. "Oy, didja see how long I took? How hard was that?"

There was a desk in front of the door, but it wasn't anything heavy, and Claude was able to push it out of the way. He looked around, trying to gather his thoughts.

Right then, he was here looking for Peter's niece. And apparently, neither the Wonderpup nor the Time Tourist was inside yet. It was an unfortunate testament to their usefulness. He had been outside for what, five minutes? That was _incredibly_ slow; he thought they'd at least be inside the kitchen by now. Their absence probably meant that the back door team proved to be more of a challenge than Nelson and Miller had been. It also meant that the Company might've sent more people than he'd anticipated.

There was a creak from the floor above. Inhaling deeply, Claude decided to tip toe upstairs, machete at the ready in his right palm. He heard another creak in the ceiling right above once he reached the landing, and he stood there for about a minute, completely still and listening. There weren't any more noises, but someone was definitely up here, probably only one person. A door squeaked open as he continued to ascend.

Making up his mind, he decided to confront this stranger, and find out exactly what was going on. The moonlight cast a long shadow on the floor, which drifted towards the top stair at just about the same speed as he was going. Claude pressed his back against the wall and inhaled deeply, preparing to drop his invisibility in the next few seconds.

A man was waiting there, aiming his gun where Claude should've appeared once he'd ascended the top step. Instead, Claude materialized, ducked, and side-stepped, sweeping his machete in a downward arc. He curved his right arm up and shot out his free arm out in the opposing direction, allowing him to halt the blade a few precarious inches away from the man's neck.

Panting and facing the man in the pale moonlight, Claude realized two things. One, there was now a gun pointed at his own right carotid artery. Two, he knew who was pointing the gun.

"_You_?" Bennet uttered, completely taken aback.

"You." Claude stated simply, now ready to swing the machete with all necessary force.

* * *

When Hiro teleported to the back gate, he'd heard two voices in the backyard. He was certain of it. 

But why was he only fighting one man?

His opponent swung the rake above his head once again, bringing it down with a discordant clang once it fell upon Hiro's sword. The man continued to strike continuously, and Hiro had to parry at unnatural angles just to meet the blows in time. He really needed to make a power play; something to keep the man off long enough for him to concentrate and freeze time.

Something fell out of the man's pocket, some kind of device. Hiro didn't know what it was, but deeming it important, he sidestepped and stomped on it, blocking another blow as he did so. He heard someone swear, but it didn't sound like his opponent. It sounded like a woman.

That someone struck Hiro in the back of the head, and he fell. Instinctively, he brought his blade up, able to deflect a strike from the rake again. There was now a woman standing next to his opponent, smirking as Hiro struggled to hold back the blow.

"Liam, you weren't supposed to break that!" she scolded. "Now the damn phones are back up!"

"Yeah, well, you played spectator for a long while, Mack," said Liam irritably, still holding Hiro in a lock. "It isn't my fault. Do you know how hard this is?" He swung the rake and thrust it at Hiro again, the young man just barely able to stop the strike this time.

"I thought you looked like you were having fun," she smirked. "Anyway, it's better if you smack around time travelers and not your brother again, right?"

"Just help me out, will ya?!"

Mack grinned maliciously at Hiro, taking a step back. "You're gonna pay for breaking our toy," she told him. Drawing in a breath, she froze. Then, her skin started to glisten in the moonlight, appearing almost aqueous. She shrank and melted into herself, ending up as just another water puddle sitting on the lawn.

At this, Hiro almost lost his concentration, jumping up and backward and parrying more of Liam's hits. The puddle drifted towards him now, forcing him to move and hop around awkwardly as he continued his duel. Eventually he slipped again, his sword knocked out of his hand as he tumbled to the ground. Liam continued his multi-strike attack, and Hiro now scrambled in the grass, running only on pure adrenaline as he continued to dodge.

After fighting samurai and slaying serial killers, he was now at the mercy of a rake-wielding villain and a puddle of water.

There were probably worse ways to shame the House of Kensei, but Hiro's frantic mind couldn't think up a single one.


	10. Ohioan Standoff, part two

**10. Ohioan Standoff, part two**

Spiderman didn't carry a cell phone. He had that nifty Spidey-Sense built in, and it told him whenever there was inherent danger or villainy nearby. Otherwise, he got his news by hanging around people who liked to discuss crimes in progress during conversation.

Peter Petrelli did carry a cell phone, and some kind of sense told him it was ringing while he was soaring towards the park at sonic speed. Slowing down, he first wondered why his phone reception was back up. Seeing that it was Claire on the ID, he decided that renewed reception was better than a lack of Spidey-Sense.

He landed on a high school rooftop and answered right before it went to voicemail. "Claire?"

"Peter, where _are_ you?" she asked impatiently. "Why aren't you here?"

"I'm sorry Claire, I really am," he said, deeply sincere, "but I can't be there right now. Are you guys okay? How is everyone?"

"We're fine, but what about you? You said you were going to be here! What is so important that you can't be here?"

Peter shut his eyes, feeling guiltier with each angry question she gave. "Claire, I'm sorry. It's just...The thing is, we think Sylar's in the park down the street. I have to go take care of him. I sent some help to your house, though, don't worry. They'll help you out."

There was a second of silence on the other end. "_Sylar_ is here? In this city?"

"We saw explosions over there…" He would've explained further, but realized that he might be wasting time, as apologetic as he was for ditching Claire. "Look, I'm sorry, but I have to go. You guys will be fine, trust me!" He had to force out the last sentence, but Claire had heard it, and that was what mattered.

Up ahead in the distance, Peter could see the vague flashes still illuminating the park. Sylar was still at it. But Peter felt ready. After all this time and work, this was what he'd been waiting for. He'd never felt more powerful and confident than he did at that moment. In a way, he felt like Nathan, who never ever failed to appear so strong and sure of himself.

"If it makes up for it, I'll definitely make you proud, Claire," Peter said softly. "You _and _Nathan."

* * *

The two men held their standoff for a long minute, Claude projecting a distrustful stare at Bennet, who had replaced his initial shock with an intent gaze. Meanwhile, something moved downstairs. Bennet caught it in his peripheral vision and ducked behind the wall immediately, shooting at the now conscious Miller and Nelson. Claude had instinctively dropped to the ground as well, dodging taser prods by a mere split second. 

He was absolutely speechless for a few moments as he lay on his stomach, watching _Noah Bennet_ firing at the Company agents below, who now returned with silenced shots of their own. "Hey!" Claude whispered hoarsely, recomposing himself, "Why the hell are you firing at your own men?!"

"I don't work for them anymore," Bennet answered, his shots emptying into a bookshelf next to the door. "They're after Claire!"

So the Company had come for Claire at last? But no, wait…

"What? How can they be after Claire, they're after Peter's niece!"

"Claire _is_ Peter's niece!"

Claude's eyes widened; he was now completely ignorant of the gunfire flying all around him. "That conniving little son of a _bitch_…"

The gunfire ceased after a while, and Bennet eyed the shadows below warily. "You're here with Peter, right?" He asked. "Where is he?"

"I don't know, he and Hiro were supposed to have entered the house already."

"Who?"

Impatience added to Claude's already rising anger. It was like they were watching a confusing movie and had to trade half-assed explanations with each other. "Look, could we drop the bloody Abbott and Costello routine? As idiotic as it is, we're obviously on the same side at the moment, so let's swap reconnaissance." Bennet, seeing the reason Claude presented, nodded as he checked and reloaded his gun. "One of those two down there has built-in night vision, that's the deal with the blackout. Also, we can't call Peter to find out what's going on because someone's jammed the phone reception. I'm thinking it's the team in the back."

"Well, I counted five in total," said Bennet, peering behind the wall once again. A shot zipped by his ear, hitting a picture frame, and he returned fire. He hid for cover. "Only one I know personally is the illusionist, Candice."

"An _illusionist_?"

"Yeah. I'm guessing she might be the cause for Peter's delay. We'll need to find him and get downstairs, my family's hiding in the basement."

"For that we'll need Hiro, then. You got another gun?" Bennet tossed him his spare, along with a silencer. Claude examined it for a second, cocking it and picking up his blade.

"Nice machete," Bennet commented. "Chinatown?"

Claude nodded, though he was greatly annoyed with the near-banter his ex-partner was attempting to initiate. "Yeah, Kai Li's. By the way," he pointed the blade at him again, although Bennet didn't make a move as he eyed Claude cautiously. "This is a temporary truce," he explained, curt but vicious. "You may have finally _fucked_ up with the Company and gotten Sandra and the kids involved, but unlike Peter I have _no_ reason to trust you. Do you understand?"

Bennet, too used to threats, naturally shifted into impudent mode before he could have a second thought. "Guess you're not getting your apology," he said coldly. Unlike with Parkman or Suresh, though, he didn't smirk.

"Didn't want it," Claude shot back, "man like you's not worthy of forgiveness. However," he sheathed the machete at last, "I think we can leave our little row for later. Right now you can lead the way downstairs and I'll give you some cover fire."

Bennet knew that sending him first was Claude's resentful way of taking charge, but at the very least, the man was on his side for the time being. He nodded, and gun at the ready, he dashed down the stairway, as Claude fired into the dark below.

Once he'd made it to floor level, he turned around, ready to cover for Claude, but someone bumped into him.

"Ow! Oh, Dad?"

Bennet grabbed his daughter by the shoulders and hurried her over to a linen closet, keeping the door ajar as a shield. Checking that the Company agents were distracted, he turned back to her. "Claire, _why_ aren't you in the basement?" he asked, as if getting ready to ground her.

"Peter said that Sylar is here!" she said urgently.

His brow furrowed. "Sylar?"

"Yes! He called and said he's in the park up the street, he was going to go fight him. But I couldn't let him do this alone, Dad, I mean, what if he doesn't…" she hesitated to go on. "What if he doesn't _survive_ this time?"

"He will survive," said Bennet with certainty, realizing what was going on. "But something else may happen. Peter's walking into a trap, we'll need to-"

A grunt and a thumping sound interrupted Bennet, from close range, and when he and Claire turned around they found Nelson crumpled on the ground with a fresh bullet hole in his back. Bennet would've covered his daughter's eyes, but then Claude stormed up to them, looking like he was readying a whole arsenal of censor-worthy obscenities.

"Hey!" he yelled, stepping over the body. Miller had apparently escaped. "When I said I'd give you cover fire, you were supposed to _return_ the damn favor, you inconsiderate mother-"

"—Uncle Claude?" said Claire, squinting and instantly recognizing what she saw through the beard and bum's clothing.

Claude blinked. He hadn't noticed her there at first, and _good God,_ she was all grown up now. "…Claire! Didn't see you there, sweetheart! My my, you're as beautiful as ever, aren't you?"

"Um, what are you doing here?" she asked, not noticing the way her father watched Claude uncertainly.

"I was…in the neighborhood?" he explained—well, more like suggested.

"We've got a problem," Bennet cut in, "Peter may have run into the illusionist I told you about. She's posing as a serial killer. Claire, you said you called Peter's phone?"

"I did, but he's not picking up anymore," she said.

"Then we're going to have to get to him before the Company does." He looked at Claude. "Didn't you say you brought a friend? Hiro? What does he do?"

"He's a time travelin' teleporter!" Claude said proudly.

Bennet's brow arched. "Really?" he asked with some interest.

Claude nodded, inappropriately enthused. "God, he's bloomin' _brilliant_, you'd never believe it-"

"—Could we maybe get a plan rolling sometime before Peter gets into trouble?" asked Claire, growing frustrated.

"Yes," said Bennet shortly. "Claude, you and Hiro get my family out of here, I'll drive over to the park and warn Peter-"

"—I'm coming too," Claire asserted, and before her father could protest, said, "we don't have time to argue about this, Dad, he's my uncle!" Turning around, she hurried off to the garage without another word.

"Claire!" yelled Bennet. "Claire! Dammit…Claude, get Hiro to teleport to the park as soon as everyone's safe!" And he took off after her down the hallway.

Claude was left alone, very annoyed. It was enough that he had been tricked into siding with his former best friend again, but the fact that he wasn't even allowed to properly murder Peter for it was just downright-

There was a 'Whump!' sound, and he turned around to see that the kitchen was now filled with an odd fog of white powder. Upon closer inspection, the source of the fog turned out to be a huge bag of flour on the counter, newly obliterated by the bullet embedded in the wall.

"The bloody hell was that?" he said aloud.

* * *

Neither Hiro nor Liam could keep up the frenzied pace or long. Sooner or later one had to give out. Liam made the mistake of channeling a lot of energy into a downward swing, allowing Hiro to roll over as the rake came down upon him and embedded itself in the ground. Lunging over the ever-present puddle, Hiro snatched his sword, jumped up, and shut his eyes. 

When he reopened them, he almost lost his hold on time.

Liam's rake was frozen only a few inches away from his right cheek. Mack, now solid, had taken out a gun from somewhere and fired it, the bullet staring him right between the eyes. Hiro stepped out of his lethal spot, getting a better view of the scene.

Inspired, Hiro got an idea, and grinned mischievously. A minute later (to him at least) he was inside the house, and blinked once again.

He heard Claude curse from behind, but Hiro didn't acknowledge his presence, being too thrilled by the scene outside to care:

"Liam, get off of me!" Mack yelled angrily, prying herself out of their make-out position. "Keep it in your pants when you're on the job, jackass!"

"I-I…I didn't do that!" Liam looked around in confusion. "Where's my gun? And the time traveler?"

Hiro tapped on the window pane, displaying the gun and rake for them to see. "Hallo!" he greeted.

"Son of a bitch!" Liam yelled. He and Mack started for the door, but both didn't even advance an inch before Liam stumbled clumsily on top of Mack, who was on her way down as well. They looked down to find Liam's shoelaces tied around Mack's high-heel.

"I've have to admit, you've got style," said Claude, coming up from behind and slapping Hiro on the back. "Classic physical comedy, but I'll admit it's clever. Well done."

"Thanks," Hiro grinned. "But where is the family? I must transport them to safety before I go fight Sylar-"

"—Yeah, about that. Apparently the part of Sylar is being played by an illusionist tonight, so there's no need to panic. False alarm, you could say." Claude clapped his hands. "To the basement, shall we? We'll need to make two trips tonight, so let's start on the first."

Sandra could hardly believe her eyes when a bearded and much disheveled Claude Rains opened the basement door after all the ruckus she heard upstairs. "Claude, it's you!" she exclaimed, hugging him once he confirmed his identity. "My god, it's been so _long_, where-"

"—No time for that just yet, Sandra," he smiled. "And Lyle! You must've grown a foot and a half since I saw you last, boy."

"Uncle Claude, are you here to help us?" Lyle asked.

"He's probably more equipped to do that," he said, motioning towards Hiro. "Hiro is our ride out of here. Where to then, eh?"

Hiro shrugged. "I'm not sure. I have been gone for several months."

"Well, let's say New York. You ever been to the Deveaux Building?"

Unfortunately, the name drew a blank, and he shook his head. "No, I haven't. Oh!" Hiro's eyes shined happily. "But I know another place! I think it's empty now, I'll take you there!"

* * *

Peter landed on the sidewalk just on the edge of the park. He looked around; the place looked just like he'd left it only twenty minutes ago, and the nuclear flashes had ceased right before he landed. Had Sylar seen him fly in? There was no way…the guy wasn't even expecting him. Peter approached with caution, staying invisible as he walked onto the grass. 

It was a _huge_ park, and full of nighttime creatures that pecked around in piles of litter and toppled garbage cans. There were a few bums hanging around the public restrooms, seemingly hung over. Sylar probably hadn't been in this area—these people probably would've lost their heads by now. He was surprised they hadn't run off at the sight of the mushroom clouds. These drunks' poor judgment aside, it was going to be important to restrict Sylar to whatever side of the park he was currently terrorizing.

"GAAARRGGGH!!"

At the sound of the scream, he dropped his invisibility and speedily bolted into the air. Adrenaline rushing through him, he jetted past the basketball courts, over the playground, and landed at last at a picnic area. Under a gazebo stood Sylar, hunched over as the moonlight from behind him cast a long shadow over the white concrete. Peter steeled himself inside, confident, fearless, able to feel his power flowing easily through his veins. At that moment, he truly felt invincible.

Noticing Peter, Sylar walked over slowly but just as assertively, dragging his latest victim along at his side.

Peter saw the victim's face appear under the park lights, and in an instant, he was a mere mortal once more.

"Nathan…?" he uttered. Then, once the impact fully set in, it suddenly all came out in one anguished scream. "Nathan!!"

With a smirk, Sylar dropped Nathan's lifeless body to the grass, and levitated himself a few inches off the ground. "Don't worry, Peter," he sneered. "I'll put this to better use than Nathan ever did. Watch." And in the next second he had zoomed off into the clouds, with no further provocation.

This was because he had done enough. Staggering over quickly, Peter collapsed to his knees by his brother's body. He could barely inhale any air as the tears flooded to the surface. "Nathan," he choked, picking his brother up from the ground. "No, Nathan, no…Oh God, not you…"

It couldn't have been his big brother; limp and bloody and brainless and wearing a stare completely devoid of life. But it really was. Right here, this inanimate weight lying in his arms. This corpse was Nathan Petrelli, the Congressman, the politician, the famous attorney, the big man on campus, the guy everyone _really_ talked about whenever they called Peter "Nathan's kid brother."

After all these months of searching, he'd found him too late. And he wasn't dead because Nathan had been a hero in New York. It was because of that goddamn son of a fucking bitch…

"I'm sorry, Nathan…" he told him. "I…I came too late. You were _alive_, all this time…you were still here on Earth, and if-if…if I'd only looked _harder_, dammit…"

"Absolutely pathetic," came Sylar's voice once again.

Peter looked up, and he was standing under the gazebo, with that_ fucking_ grin.

"Are you still here _weeping_, Peter?" New found rage storming inside, Peter raised a firm hand, ready to murder. But before he used any power, Sylar brought up his hand as well, and he was holding something.

"Unlike you, I've been productive," Sylar said smugly, as he held up yet another de-brained body to the moonlight.

Peter's wide-eyed horror pleased him, and his grin widened. "Thanks for staying around here while I got around to that," he continued. "I thought you might be a…_hindrance_ once I saw you arrive. I guess I had no reason to worry, did I?"

Peter couldn't breathe again, all his focus now on the dead man Sylar held up like a demented puppeteer. At once a puppet, but at the same time, a dead human being. Just another kill to Sylar now.

But it was a kill Peter could've _prevented…_

No...

One he _should_ have prevented.

He heard something, and it wasn't Sylar. It was a woman.

_So pathetic…has no control…This man _can't_ beat Sylar, no way…We really will have to catch him ourselves…_

"You're…" Peter stuttered, "you're not…"

Sylar's grin went away. "Not who?"

"Peter!" Claire yelled from across the playground, running towards him. "Peter, that's not Nathan, or Sylar!"

"Aww, no one likes a tattle-tale," said Sylar, but in the distinctly different woman's voice. Suddenly everything around him faded and seemed to disintegrate. The atmosphere started to shake all around them. Nathan's body disappeared from Peter's arms. In a few seconds Sylar was no longer there, a smirking girl in a short skirt now in his place. "Guess we'll have to play later, huh Pete?"

"Peter, freeze her!" yelled Bennet, from behind Claire. "Don't let her leave!"

But Peter didn't move a muscle. He watched Candice mount the motorcycle that had appeared nearby, and she sped over the grass and out into the dark street. She was long gone once Claire and her father caught up with him.

He was absolutely still, sitting in the grass and staring blankly after Candice as Claire ran up to him. "Peter, are you okay?" she asked, embracing him immediately.

"Nathan." He uttered softly. "Sylar killed Nathan."

"He didn't really die," said Claire, hugging him tighter, trying to reassure him. "It was an illusion…he didn't really die. Nathan didn't die. It's okay, Peter, it's okay."

"No, it's not," he said, looking over at Claire. "Because she was right. I can't beat Sylar."

* * *

_So I'm speculating heavily on Candice's abilities here, since we really haven't seen her transform into a guy (or two) or illusion some very bright explosions in a park. Personally, I think she could develop her powers way past giving people pimples and hiding dead bodies._


	11. Insight Over Alcohol

**11. Insight Over Alcohol**

Lucy wouldn't have believed at first sight that Mohinder used to be a cab driver in Manhattan. He was _too_ nicely dressed, for one. She vaguely wondered if they required like an American metro-fashion class along with the American dialect classes over in those Indian call centers, until she remembered that he had been a university professor and didn't seem very prone to slipping into an American accent. Ah well, it made for fun speculation about it involving whip-wielding ex-girlfriends and copies of Esquire hidden inside genetics textbooks.

But anyway, the second reason why Lucy didn't believe in Mohinder's most previous occupation was that his street smarts, she observed, amounted to whatever he had paid attention to in that movie _The Fugitive_. This included wandering together around a public place for several hours (which was a good way to stay inconspicuous), separately walking into an eatery to use the phone (another good method), and Mohinder counting his money out loud within ear shot of the bartender (not so good).

"Okay…five euros…plus thirty cents…" Mohinder muttered to himself, counting out his change.

"Yeah, talking to your money in English in a Portuguese restaurant," said Lucy, scooting up on the edge of her barstool nearby as she sipped her Port wine. "_That's_ not gonna attract attention."

"Shut up," he snapped, but a minute later he realized he was urging the ringing phone to pick up. She giggled as he turned his back towards the cantina, ignoring her.

Mohinder recognized that irreverent look in Lucy's eye. He was well aware that he was probably giving her plenty of good reason to mock him (aside from his refusal to do a round of "almost got killed" shots), but he was way too anxious to care at the moment. Even two hours after finding Dr. Vicente dead and taking to the streets for safety, he was still as alert and uneasy as ever. Someone had to be, even if Lucy tried to temper it with her ever-present lax attitude.

The phone continued to ring on. He knew that it had to be something like 2 AM in California, but he had to try. When the house phone went to voice mail twice, he tried the cell. Surprisingly, he got an answer.

"Mohinder!" Matt answered, sounding surprised. Then, edgy and fatigued, he questioned, "Hey man, where the hell have you been? I left like fifteen messages at your hotel, I thought something had happened to you!"

"Something did happen," he affirmed. "The man I was supposed to meet, Dr. Vicente, is dead. Lucy and I walked into his office and saw a little too much. We've been laying low in the markets for the past few hours."

"Someone's after you?"

"Yes, but I'm not exactly sure how much peril we're in yet. Lucy is as handy as I thought she'd be, though, so we have that going for us. I'm going to have to take a look into Dr. Vicente's death, but I don't think it will delay our return by too-"

"—You can't do that," said Matt suddenly. "You have to come back, right now."

"…Excuse me?"

"Look, the Company is back. They sent some people after me and Jan and Molly. They sent someone else after the Sanders' family and the Bennets."

"The Company?" Now that was just _uncomfortably_ coincidental. Were they responsible for Dr. Vicente's death? And had they known he and Lucy were coming to visit? Were they here, _watching _his every move once more?

Mohinder's senses seemed to heighten, and he felt even more exposed and insecure sitting in the middle of that foreign cantina. He darted an apprehensive look at Lucy…more irreverence, as usual…Damn girl and her liquor…

"Listen Mohinder…" Matt continued, hesitant. "You need to know…I um, was only able to get out of town with one packet of blood for Molly."

Mohinder might've burst a vein, already being intensely wound up before hearing that. "You _what_?"

"Look, you're going to have to book the next flight out of there, she's only going to hold up for-"

"—Yes, _three_ days, Matt, I told you that myself," Mohinder said impatiently, his voice raising. Lucy arched a curious brow at him. "I spent a whole _week_ overworking my bone marrow so that you'd have more than enough antibodies on hand, and you're trying to tell me that you could only get _one_?" He asked incredulously. "Where were you keeping them? I even left you with an extra cooler! Oh God, poor Molly…"

"Hey, hold on!" Matt interrupted defensively, although he sounded as ashamed as the idiot Mohinder was accusing him of being. "For your information, I risked my _life_ sneaking back into my house retrieving that packet, so don't take it out on me. It was an accident, these things happen."

Mohinder sighed. "Did you at least get her medicines?"

"Yes. Everything except the one thing you need to be here to provide."

Mohinder couldn't have said it more pointedly himself. "Alright," he sighed. "I'm going to make travel arrangements right now. Where will you be?"

"Uh, I'm not sure exactly; Bennet's supposed to call me back on that. Don't you have a cell phone or-"

The line went dead, and Mohinder looked up to see Lucy with her finger on the phone cradle.

"Lucy, that was Matt!" he exclaimed. "Molly's in danger, we-"

"—Might be in deeper water right now. See those thugs staring at us at the door?"

Sure enough, there were three thugs at the door. Just like in the movies.

"Huh," was all Mohinder could gasp out. "Um…is there an exit somewhere?"

He heard a window break somewhere, and he turned to see a winded Lucy lifting her bar stool and hurtling it at the thugs twenty feet away. It hit them speedily, and she grabbed Mohinder's wrist. "It's the window! You know what to do, move it!"

* * *

Nathan was enjoying a frosty Sam Adams and the astoundingly picturesque New Mexican desert glowing dimly under the moonlight when Aster walked out on the patio area, completely killing the tranquil mood with his pompousness. One of these things did not belong in this picture. 

"You're looking very well since I saw you last, Mr. Petrelli," said Aster, settling himself down on the deck chair next to Nathan.

"Why would you say that?" asked Nathan, sipping his beer. "I barely saw you this morning." Coincidentally, Aster had ruined a perfectly good sunrise during that visit.

"No reason," he answered breezily. "Have you enjoyed your alone time? Put it to good use?"

"I enjoyed it very much, thanks. I especially enjoyed the fact that you and Candice gave me my space."

Aster chuckled. "Is that supposed to be a hint to leave?"

"It's a simple statement of opinion," Nathan said matter-of-factly, brushing a stray flower stem off his khakis. "We politicians like those."

"Almost as much as you all enjoy being circuitous."

"It's the reason we _are_ circuitous."

Aster watched him directly now, but Nathan continued to appear transfixed on the insect symphony emanating from the wilderness before him. "So will you give me your answer now, and stop being circuitous?"

"That's a compound question, John, I'm not able to think through all that complication while imbibing alcohol-"

"—I'll take that as a 'yes, I will continue to be an evasive lawyer.'" Aster looked mildly annoyed. Nathan was going for the whole nine yards, but mild annoyance at least merited a slight grin.

They were silent for a while, and that was perfectly fine by Nathan. He downed his beer as Aster looked off into the sunset, expressionless but clearly thoughtful.

"I think this deal of yours is way too simple," said Nathan at last. "The easy way or the ridiculously hard way. You're only humoring my thinking time so it looks like you respect me."

Aster only tried to play the Voice of Reason once again. "We're not trying to keep you here against your will, Mr. Petrelli-"

"—Only because it's unnecessary," Nathan explained the truth for him. "As you've made perfectly clear, I have no other place to go. You've presented all of your angles, continuously reiterated all of your arguments every time you've seen me, and you've even topped it off by offering me a _normal_ life with my family again. I'd congratulate you, John, but I've used the same tactics to win cases so many times before."

"Nathan, do you _want_ something?" Aster asked, actually somewhat exasperated. He was losing the game show host flare; Pat Sajak certainly never lost his cool like that on TV. "You wouldn't dress me down like this if you weren't going to either give me your answer _or_ get something in return."

"I do want something, as a matter of fact. How about a test drive?"

There were a few confused, silent moments between them. "…Of what?"

Nathan gave him a condescending smile of his own. "Of my new job, dipshit. Why not let me try before I buy into this?"

An incredulous look passed over the man, and Nathan's smile grew. "Nathan, this is an _organization_, not a vacuum commercial, you don't get a 30 day trial to wear the damn thing in!"

"I'm not asking for a 30 day trial. I want to run an assignment." Steeling up his best courtroom face, he stared down Aster. "You don't think I've noticed how busy you've been? Don't expect me to believe that you've been sending Candice and the rest of your people out for groceries."

"Why does that matter?" he asked defensively. "You don't know the first thing about how we do things."

"Which means you're hiring me for my skills," Nathan reasoned. "I'm a lawyer and a politician. I can lead people, I can look at a situation and think on my feet, I can strategize like no other. I did this in Bosnia, John. I won't interfere with whatever plan you already have in place, but I want to see this business firsthand."

"And if I say no?"

Nathan paused before answering. Content was crucial, but timing almost as much so. "You'd be doing yourself a disservice, then, if you really want a good adviser on your staff."

Aster turned towards the sunset so he could think and not have to look at Nathan's sincere gaze.

In his head, Nathan was enormously pleased with himself. That was what happened when you negotiated with politicians. They tried to argue you out of your own goddamn deal. It was the only reason people drudged up old stories on them about teenage crack use or med school kitty slaughtering. Dubious leverage was better than no leverage against silver tongues.

Regardless, silver tongues could still find battles to win. Currently, Nathan hardly had anything going for him, and here he had the heir of a dead mobster actually _contemplating_ the bullshit deal he had made up while _drinking._

It wasn't _entirely_ bullshit; aside from his dealings with Linderman (which he learned well from), Nathan always looked for some advantage in any of his business and legal affairs, even a small one. Anyway, when you woke up four months after your last conscious moment, very much alone and absolutely vulnerable to any kind of influence, you grasped at straws affording you any kind of control over the situation.

"Fine," said Aster at last. "I'll let you tag along with Candice, but she'll be calling the shots. You can participate," he added, seeing Nathan's mutinous glare, "but only act on Candice's orders. She's been in charge of the operation for weeks, I can't relinquish her lead just because you had a whim request."

"Fair enough," Nathan conceded. "So why is this so important, then? I assume you're going after someone, but who?"

Aster smirked, back on his game once more. "You ever beat up a bully for your little brother before?"

Nathan's eyes narrowed.

Goddamn John Aster and his smug foreshadowing.

* * *

"Are you _drunk_?" Mohinder yelled over the noise, as they peered at their pursuers from behind some pillars. 

"I'm _buzzed_, thanks much," Lucy insisted, finding the coast clear and then leading him into a bread store.

"Your speed's a little sluggish, you probably ran me into five walls while we were fleeing those people."

"It is not, I sober up well under pressure. Also, you're the lankiest thing I've ever seen, so it's not my fault your limbs kept flailing into things. And for God's sake," she picked up a roll and shoved it into his hands, "look like you're actually _supposed _to be here, don't act so neurotic just because you are."

Mohinder kept his head down, comparing the roll to another and occasionally glancing out the window. "We need to get back to the States," he muttered. "Molly needs more blood."

Lucy sighed. "Don't you think those people would be looking for you at the airport?"

"I thought so. That's why we need to find someone who can provide us with fake documentation."

"Where are we gonna find someone like that?"

"I don't know, but this market looks seedy enough, don't you think?" He sidled away, putting the rolls down. "Meet me outside in the back, we'll figure out a better plan from there."

He spotted the back door and smiled at the smitten teenage girl watching him shyly from the counter as he paid for a loaf of bread. Snatching up the bag and making his way outside, his mind was racing again, working through potential ideas for their next move as he waited for his intoxicated companion to catch up.

"Good morning, Doctor Suresh," said the deep, unfamiliar voice that came up from behind.  
"Care to share to break bread with a hungry stranger?"

But he never got to answer, as he was too busy dealing with the subsequent unconsciousness induced by the syringe suddenly thrust into his back.

* * *

_Sorry bout the long break. Work and events and a little bit of writer's laziness (not block, really) contributed to that. Back at it though, so yay!_

_The kitty-slaughterer was fmr. Sen. Bill Frist. Swear to God._


	12. Discoveries

**12. Discoveries**

Peter opened his eyes and instantly recognized the dimly lit room to which Hiro had transported him, Claire, and her father.

"Isaac's loft…" he said softly, looking all around at the barren steel and concrete walls once adorned with chilling and prophetic images. It felt like he was in a robbed tomb, barely feeling Simone and Isaac's specters in the empty space. His eyes instinctively dropped down; the floor mural of the explosion had been painted over.

"It's now a realtor's nightmare, as I understand," said Bennet, walking around and inspecting the cleared out workbenches and leftover chairs. Two flashlights aimed upward from tables on different sides of the room. "New York properties sell faster than any other, but no one wants one previously inhabited by uh, 'a clumsy Van Gogh.'"

"Mistah Esack did not try to cut off his ear," said Hiro, surprising Bennet for actually understanding the reference. "Sylar did that. He murdered him, took his power for his own."

"Even if the FBI knows that, it doesn't stop the media from embellishing. The less people understand about something, the more prone they are to-" He halted mid-sentence, looking away from the boarded windows to see Claire in the corner, trying to coax a still downcast Peter into a comforting hug.

"Are you okay?" she asked him.

Peter didn't meet her eyes, but returned the hug all the same while continuing to look around. "Yeah. I'll be fine."

"Really?"

He finally looked directly at her, putting a lot of effort into displaying a half-smile. "I'm not really in the mood for a cheer right now, Claire. But don't worry about it, I'm alright."

Persistent, she shook her head. "If you let it keep bothering you, it's just going to make things worse. Believe me, I know."

Peter didn't reply, choosing to distract himself with the emptiness of the loft again.

By nature, he was not an evasive person. He loved people and always drew so much energy from interacting them, and he especially loved hanging out with Claire, now that they were closer friends than ever. But his pain at his mistake in the park was so intense right now that all he wanted to do was fly off or sit on a roof somewhere and be all alone. Alone to marvel in horror at how he could forget all about his responsibility, forget about his pledge to go after Sylar when the time came, forget about everything except what was going on in his own world…

They all wanted to tell him it was an illusion, that it wasn't real and therefore he shouldn't contribute any more energy to thinking about it. He knew that was exactly what they were going to say. But he knew for a fact that it was real because it was _true._ He had really thought his brother was dead, so Peter did what he would've naturally done, illusion or not: he cowered and withdrew. That was all him, every second of it, and it was all truth.

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. "Oh, everyone's here!" said a very relieved Sandra, hurrying in from a back room. "Rodrigo's asleep again on a couch in the bedroom, and Lyle went out with Claude to get groceries. Hello, Peter!"

His craving for solitude intensifying, Peter greeted her with a nod and the same half-smile as she came over, took her daughter in open arms, and hugged her gratefully.

"Honey, when did you call Claude?" she asked, turning to her husband. "He said he'd barely moved back from Europe a week ago, I had no idea you were still in touch with him!"

"Oh, you know dear, there's certain people you know we can trust," Bennet covered, imperceptibly startled. "I'd…called him about something else the other day, and-"

The front door opened. "Really _lovely_ place you picked out, Hiro," came Claude's sarcastic voice as he entered with Lyle, both carrying grocery bags. "Even better, it's in the middle of the _arts district_, there'll be art school twats running around outside during the day, damn them all. You lot had better like glazed donuts, cause it was…" He cut off, finally aware of Bennet's presence.

There were a few silent, betraying moments before Bennet spoke up to cover the rift. "Claude." He began, "Thank you. For coming when I called." He came forward and extended his arm, feeling strangely awkward and uncertain, and now very much hoping against hope that the man could please still be professional and hold in his rage and just play along -

"Put your hand down, mate, you know it's been too long for just that." And in less than a second the man he'd tried to murder seven years ago was embracing him like a brother.

This wasn't exactly how he'd pictured this in his nightmares.

He wondered if the machete was still sheathed…

Fortunately, he'd caught onto Claude's enthusiasm almost instantly (picking up on each others' cues was a habit that hadn't faded) and made an appropriately relieved grin, watching as Sandra reacted with a smile.

"You all took awhile," said Claude, withdrawing and going over to the groceries, taking out the donuts. "Was the illusionist any trouble?"

"No, but she can be," said Bennet. "And the fact that the Company pulled similar attacks on our other friends means that we're going to need a lot of intel before we counter-strike."

"What about Sylar?" Hiro asked eagerly. "He is back, we must stop him!"

"Sylar isn't a priority right now."

Hiro was aghast. "A killer is always a priority! He almost blew up New York!"

Peter snorted, but Claire was the only one who noticed. _You mean _I _almost blew up New York,_ he thought gloomily, and the significant look Claude threw at him didn't help to lighten his mood.

"If the Company captures you, you'll never have a chance to go after him. But if he does do anything, both the FBI and the Company will make him the most wanted man in America. They've tracked him before, so he won't be on the run for long."

"That is only if he kills again!" Hiro insisted. "You think it is okay if another person dies before anyone does something about him?!"

Bennet suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable having this argument in front of his wife and kids. But Claude, uncharacteristically generous tonight, went ahead and took up the abandoned 'lesser of two evils' stand.

"Sylar's one man," he told Hiro. "The Company's an organization, and they can take more than just your brain. Besides, we don't have a clue where the man is now, do we?" he offered him a donut. "Just sit tight, friend, take things a step at a time. In fact," he caught Peter's somber gaze, "we probably all need to take a breather for the time being. We'll have time for planning in the morning."

Claude sounded sympathetic, but the disdainful look he directed at Peter was anything but.

* * *

The floor was moving below Mohinder.

And as his eyelids forced themselves open, he noticed: so was the ceiling.

His eyes received an uncomfortable flash of florescent light at a rate roughly relative to the speed of the floor sliding below his back. He also realized that those were hands pulling on his ankles. He concluded that he was being dragged along a hallway somewhere.

It was nice that he could employ the scientific method in such appropriate circumstances.

The person pulling him around looked very tall, and had dark, curly hair. He wasn't sure if the man looked so tall just because he was looking up at him from the floor, but he eventually decided that the man's imposing stature, and the fact that Mohinder was supposed to be unconscious, meant that he wasn't going to give any pleasant answers if he asked him anything. Mohinder kept his mouth shut.

Dizzy, he turned his head just when it passed over one of those metallic floor panels, scraping his ear. He winced, hating the fact that you couldn't really time these things when you had no control over your own motion.

He was able to notice, though, that the environment had changed. When he'd woken up, he was in a grey brick corridor, like a maintenance tunnel underground. Once he'd injured his ear, Mohinder found himself being dragged through a very bright and clean tiled hallway. Every door they passed seemed to be closed, but one was wide open, and he saw something very familiar.

Tilting his head up, Mohinder struggled to read what was on the huge projector screen in the conference room they passed, but he only got the picture and first two lines. It was scant information, but it was enough for someone as informed on the subject as he was.

The projector image was discussing Molly's illness…

The man stopped dragging Mohinder. "Must you haul Dr. Suresh through the lab corridor?" asked an irritated voice. He spoke with a French accent. "This is a workplace!"

"And yet you want to keep him here," said the deep voice from before; Portuguese, Mohinder recognized.

"At least put him in a wheelchair or something, don't act like a salvage!"

After a few moments, Mohinder felt himself being picked up and plopped into a wheelchair. He perceived the curly haired man smiling at him, but could barely see it through the abstract white flash and nausea that had overcome him with the change in position. "Awake, are you? Well, you are going to have to wait a bit; Dr. Miliken is on his way here, he'd like to ask you a few things."

He didn't answer, and soon he was being pushed down the hallway. They got to a dark lab room, he was left inside, and he heard the door shut and lock behind him.

Mohinder fought to stay conscious, but soon the stinging on his ear was gone as he slipped away again.

* * *

The next morning, Nathan found a note on his door from Candice, telling him to meet her in the conference room in at the entrance of the east wing by the gymnasium. The note was short and hastily written, and judging by the fact that he'd just walked by the gymnasium for the seventh time and still hadn't found the conference room, he realized she wasn't exactly overjoyed about having him come along on the mission.

It didn't aggravate Nathan much. He and Candice shared a mutual, very grade school dislike of each other, so not seeing her was perfectly fine by him. Anyway, he knew that with further posturing on Aster, he was going to end up going with her anyway, briefed on the details or not. Until then, he was content wandering the Primatech hallways on his own for a few hours.

He took the elevator to a lower floor, finding himself in another blandly unappealing hallway. This one though, had an anxious security guard walking around.

"Can I help you, Mr. Petrelli?" he asked. He looked like he was barely out of college.

"Is your superior here?" Nathan questioned.

"Uh, he's on his lunch break, I'm in charge of the cell block right now…can I help you with something?"

A cell block? Nathan was unaware that those in the paper racket were in the business of taking prisoners. "As a matter of fact, you can," he answered, feeling curious. "Mr. Aster sent me down here to have a talk with the newest detainee; you want to show me where I'm supposed to go?"

The guard blinked. "Mr. Aster sent you? I…I haven't received any instructions about that-"

"—You just did. You are aware that I'm one of your bosses now, son?"

"You are? Um, I mean, I don't-I don't remember Dawson saying anything about-"

"—Dawson shouldn't have to be the one holding your hand everyday. The memo's been out for at least 48 hours."

Nathan initial assumptions about the kid were right; he was probably brand new to Primatech, and unfamiliar with most of the protocol. He was completely pale and squirming very badly under his questioning right now.

"Oh god, I'm…I'm so sorry, Mr. Petrelli…" he stuttered. "I was in training the past few days, and I guess I'm just not caught up on everything yet…"

"Hey, it's an honest mistake," Nathan smiled, patting his shoulder. "You're the new guy, it happens. Tell you what though, lead me to that cell, and I won't mention any of this to Dawson."

The young guard followed Nathan's instruction immediately, leading him down the hall. They stopped at a door, and after swiping his card, he let Nathan in, an exceedingly grateful look on his face.

Nathan was now in an empty dim room, its only feature being an observation window looking out into another dark room. There was a light switch next to the window; he flicked it on.

Floodlights lit up the room on the other side, stirring the blond form sleeping on the bed in the corner. Slowly she rolled over towards him, one hand on her brow as she looked towards the window irritably.

"Niki?" Nathan uttered softly, recognizing the disheveled face at once.

"Nathan Petrelli," she said, getting up and walking to the window. A furious look passed over her face. "_You're_ behind this?"

"No!" he answered at once. "Jesus, no, I'm not…I just woke up here a few days ago. Just like you."

She crossed her arms, annoyed at being condescended to. "I'm supposed to believe that?"

"Yeah, you are," he said defensively. "Four months after the explosion I woke up here, okay? I don't know what happened, or what they did, but believe me, I am not involved with these people."

"You have some damn nerve, saying that to me while you're behind that window in slacks and a polo." She paused, a bit of Jessica clearly peeking out from her critical stare. "I think you're back to being a bought politician again. What kind of deal did Linderman's people offer you this time, Nathan?"

"I have_ not_ been bought," he insisted, but immediately he dropped his eyes and conceded, "they did offer me a job, though."

Niki shook her head at him disdainfully. "In exchange for what?"

"My family's safety and livelihood," he said adamantly. "Nothing _you_ wouldn't do anything for."

"Yeah, but _I _learned my lesson afterwards; don't that anything for anyone as powerful as Linderman."

It was weird having this conversation via microphone and through an observation glass; for all the impersonal aspects of the situation, somehow it didn't seem to elevate Nathan's position in the dialogue any more than it degraded Niki's. He knew that this was because he whole-heartedly agreed with what she just said. It was acting on that agreement that was the trouble, especially with Niki staring disapprovingly in response to his barely justified attitude.

"So what are you doing here, anyway?" he asked finally.

"…You seriously don't know?"

He snorted. "Hey, I barely found out that Aster had cells in this damn place. If there's a meth lab upstairs then I wouldn't have a clue."

Niki shut her eyes. "They tried to take us," she explained. "I got caught so DL could get Micah out."

"So where are they now?"

"I don't know. And I'm glad I don't. At least that son of a bitch Aster has one less resource for finding them." Niki came closer to the window now. "But that isn't going to make them safe, Nathan. Aster trusts you, doesn't he?"

"It appears that way, yeah, why does that-"

"—If he mentions _anything _about DL or Micah," her voice was now higher, breaking and straining with emotion but remaining unyielding, "you _have_ to tell me. I need to know that they're safe, if you're going to be too much of a coward to do anything about Aster, you can at least-"

The door opening interrupted her. John Aster strode into the doorway, looking as pleasant as ever. "You get lost, Nathan?" he asked casually.

Niki made no effort to hide the angry defiance in her stare, but Nathan remained perfectly cool as he addressed Aster. "Just catching up with a friend."

"I thought you were going to meet with Candice?"

"Well, you know men like me," he said sardonically, "given the choice between two women, we'll always go for the blonde…For the record though, the jail cell kinkiness had nothing to do with it-"

"—You'll be a fun addition to my staff, Nathan," Aster interrupted, now openly staring and smiling at Niki. "Have to love that dry humor of yours. Shall we go see Candice, then?"

"Sure," he answered immediately. "Uh…lead the way."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Sanders, I'm making it a point to chat with you later," Aster said affably, walking out. He added an edge to his last farewell: "You won't remain lonely for long."

Nathan took one last look at the cell before exiting. Niki looked on after them, keeping an unfazed face even though she and Nathan mutually knew what kind of conversation she and Aster were going to have later on.

Nathan watched her sympathetically right until the young guard shut the door, pulling him back into the taupe reality of the hallway outside. That's when he realized what that whole scene had just been. It was supposed to be just another day at the office.

* * *

About an hour later, Lyle was napping on a yard sale couch Hiro had teleported in from somewhere and Sandra and Claire were busy guarding Rodrigo, who still had not—or probably hadn't dared—woken up. Whichever it was, when he did come around he was scheduled for a little questioning conducted personally by Mr. Bennet.

Hiro teleported out again, but this time to "get the early newspaper." Claude didn't believe a word of this, especially since he just answered Hiro's question on where he'd encountered Sylar, but he silently let the Japanese man on his merry way to investigate whatever crazed whims he had at 4:30 in the morning. He figured he could look after himself.

Peter watched from the loft as Claire sat in the back room, not saying much and simply resting her head tiredly on her mother's shoulder. Bennet had just told him what had happened with Rodrigo, and feeling a little guilty for brooding so much, Peter was about to come over and console her, just as she'd tried to do for him.

Claude, however, had different plans. He set up a planning meeting with Bennet in another empty room, and motioned for Peter to follow them as he crossed the room. Peter tried to decline but Claude gave him that insistent, annoyed teacher look again, and reluctant, he had to obey.

As soon as Peter had locked the door, he heard a muffled crack and a short groan, turning around to find Bennet staggered against a counter, rubbing his newly bruised jaw and glaring at Claude, who had apparently just slugged him.

"Probably should've seen that one coming," Bennet muttered, flexing his jaw back and forth.

"Ah, great," yelled Claude, "then it wouldn't be a waste if I aimed for those stupid glasses next time!"

"Drop it," said Peter firmly, quickly sidling in between the two, "you're not going to break his glasses."

Claude rolled his eyes, ever derisive. "That was a _threat_. If I was gonna do that, why d'you think I went to the trouble of _hugging_ the bastard?"

"But…" he broke off, confused. "Why did you then?"

"Oh, you aren't that thick, you were able to figure out the brilliance in not telling me who your niece really was. Did you see out there? Claire's found out that her boyfriend's a pill and everyone's barely escaped the Company. They don't need to know that daddy decided to shoot Uncle Claude off a bridge as a going away present seven years ago."

Bennet cut in immediately. "I didn't just decide-"

"—You shot him off a bridge?" Peter asked, staring at Bennet with a wide-eyed look of naïve horror and disbelief. Having never seen Peter so repulsed before, Bennet confirmed with a slow nod.

"Yeah," Claude continued. "Y'didn't think I just _resigned,_ did you Petrelli? They gave me a fine severance package before I could do that." He glared at Bennet again. "Shame they didn't give the same to you."

"They were going to take Claire," he justified.

"They were _always_ going to take Claire! You only wised up when the threat was imminent!"

"Don't run to the moral high ground just because you suddenly found a goddamn conscience seven years ago-"

"—Enough!" Peter cut in. "Jeez, was I brought in here just to make sure you guys wouldn't kill each other?"

"No," Claude said, his angry tone unaffected by Peter's attempt at refereeing, "you were brought in here so you wouldn't sit outside slitting your wrists and brooding over what that illusionist showed you."

Peter was speechless, absolutely reeled by what had to be Claude's highest potency of blunt and concise affronts. Agitated, he looked over at Bennet; even though Claude was now throwing punches left and right, the man didn't look any more sympathetic to Peter's present state than Claude was.

"Hiro told me," said Claude at last. "Look, mate, it was just a trick, okay? She read you too easily, that's all it was."

"I had the feeling you were going to say that," Peter told him irritably.

"That's because you need to hear it. Now," he strode over to him, right up in his breathing space now, "you can either actively participate in our plans, or you can go home and cry, but you can't do that here. Make a fucking choice."

"I'm staying here," he answered immediately, angry and suddenly unwilling to allow insecurity to show when Claude was this close to him.

"Good," said Claude, now impossibly casual, "then you can help me pick up some reconnaissance supplies. Go and check if Hiro's back, and if he's not, leave a note."

Peter looked to be all kinds of pissed off. Not wanting Claude to provoke him further, he left the room right away.

"You are aware that he's not going to be able to just ignore it?" asked Bennet from across the room. "He's a sensitive kid."

Claude was staring off after Peter. "He needs to learn to cope sooner or later. He's the one who wants to save the world."

"And if he doesn't? He's going to compromise this whole plan."

"He won't." He faced Bennet. "But I'll watch him. If I think he's going to be a problem, I'll say so." Claude sighed grimly as he started to leave. "At any rate, I'm glad Hiro doesn't have much angst."

"Claude." He stopped at the sound of Bennet's voice. "How did you survive?"

Not turning around, he replied bitterly, "I think I've answered enough questions from you for a lifetime."

"My family is going to notice this bruise, you know."

Claude walked out into the main loft and came back with one of the grocery bags. He reached in and tossed a package of frozen peas at him. "You're not the only one who's good at making plans." He turned back to the loft. "There's some make up in the bag if it doesn't go away."

He smirked slightly at the look on Bennet's face as he shut the door behind him.


End file.
